Offerings
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: A collection of answered requests, indulgences and ideas that tickle my fancy. All gen all the time. Ratings, warnings and characters will vary by story, but the rating will never go above T. Labeled complete since, technically, this is a collection of individual completed works.
1. The Offering

Rating: T, gen

Characters: Merlin, Arthur

Warnings: Mentions of torture

Summary: Written for Sarievenea (who wanted hurt Merlin, caring Arthur and a reveal fic) over at The Gen Table on Livejournal. If you have an LJ account, then come on over. We need more prompts and we need more writers.

A/N: I'm just heaping the stories on you guys ;)

The Offering

~oOo~

Merlin hadn't cared. He was so cold, and Arthur was so cold - shivering so hard he fumbled with the flint, cutting his nicked and bloodied hands. Friendship and the future, Destiny and uncertainty - Merlin let it all come crashing down because it didn't matter anymore. He hurt and he was so, so tired but he couldn't leave Arthur like this, if he was going to leave at all; he didn't know anymore. But it didn't matter now. None of it mattered.

_Please._

_Please Arthur._

_Please don't hate me._

~oOo~

Merlin was an idiot, a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot and if he lived – which he would. He would, damn it! – then Arthur was going to kill him.

It was with a dull pain in his shoulders that he ignored and a grunt he couldn't help that Arthur lowered Merlin's broken and shaking body to the ground. Relief warred viciously with worry when Merlin curled into himself (he moved, he was still alive) shivering so hard his teeth were chattering, and in between each erratic breath Arthur thought he could hear a pained whimper.

Lords it was all such a mess. Merlin was such a mess – bloody and tattered and convulsing with shakes. Because the idiot just _had_ to stay behind and distract the brigands so Arthur could get away. Merlin just had to go and get captured and tortured in Arthur's place because Arthur was so important and servants weren't worth i_spit_/i...

Arthur covered his mouth, trying not to be sick. Merlin's arm was bent at the wrong angle near his wrist, and it hurt him so bad that Merlin gagged if it was so much as jostled. He had broken ribs, because no one breathed that shallowly and hugged themselves that protectively if they didn't. There were cuts and bruises, a swollen eye and a swollen lip, three gashes across his skinny back the length of a hand when the bastards had taken to cutting Merlin just before Arthur showed up to stop it. They'd taken his jacket, torturing him outside in the deluge of a late autumn rain.

Merlin's face was white. His lips were turning blue.

Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Arthur ripped his gaze from Merlin's battered body. He needed to find wood, build a fire, get Merlin warm.

"Merlin, don't you move and don't you dare die on me," Arthur growled. Then he was up and running, back into the downpour as he gathered what wood he could find. He brought it into the cave, dumped it onto the ground, then knelt before it as though in supplication.

_Please. Please catch fire, please._ He clacked two stones together over and over. They sparked each time. Each spark died on the wet wood.

"Come on."

More sparks.

More nothing.

"Come on!"

Arthur's hands shook, his blood like ice, his bones coated in frost. The next time the stones collided they slipped, cutting his knuckles. Blood dripped down his fingers, across the stones and splattered onto the dark wood. Arthur didn't care.

"_Come on, please!_"

~oOo~

_Please don't hate me Arthur._

_I'm so sorry. So, so sorry._

Arthur cursed the wood and ignored his bleeding hands. He was pale with the cold, stiff and growing stiffer. Water dripped from his hair, his nose, into his eyes, onto the wood that ignored his abuses and pleas.

This was all Merlin's fault. He'd been in so much pain, so cold, that he had forgotten about his magic. Imagine that. Born with the power to move Heaven and Earth, and he had forgotten all about it. If he hadn't forgotten, then he could have freed himself and Arthur wouldn't have come back for him, wouldn't have been caught in the rain. Now he would freeze to death, like Merlin was freezing to death, and it hurt so much, being cold. It tightened Merlin's muscles and made his broken bones grate against each other. It made Arthur fumble with the stones and cut himself more.

Arthur was bleeding, and Merlin hurt so much. They had kicked him and punched him and cut him, laughing as he screamed. Then Arthur had saved him, which he shouldn't have had to do.

But Merlin hadn't cared, because it had hurt so much.

This was all Merlin's fault.

"Come on!" Arthur cried.

Merlin shook and let out a quiet sob.

"Please..." Merlin said in a voice too small and broken for Arthur to hear above the cracking stones.

_Don't hate me._

Merlin brought his hands to his mouth. They were shaking terribly, knocking against each other. His breaths were shallow and uneven, as unsteady as the rest of him. It hurt to breath, it hurt to speak, it hurt so horribly to move and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. A little exhale, meant to be a word, brushed small and warm against his palms. He took a breath – lord, it hurt! Like being stabbed. He bit his lip, fighting through the riptide of pain and terror, and then he said the word again. He cupped the warmth in his hands, so bright and golden and small. But he was so tired, and it was taking everything he had to hold onto that warmth even as his hands dropped. They fell to the floor, and the warmth trickled away like water. It flowed to the wood, propelled by a wish instead of a command.

Arthur turned his head. He looked just in time to see the last of the heat flow onto the wood and catch it, to hell with it being wet.

Arthur saw just as the gold faded from Merlin's eyes.

~oOo~

The fire danced on the once wet wood, throwing their shadows against the rough wall where they writhed as though insane and reveling in it.

It shouldn't be possible.

It isn't possible.

The rocks fell from Arthur's limp hands. He stared at the flames. Those impossible flames.

He was just seeing things, that was all. The wood had caught, despite how wet it was. Arthur looked at Merlin.

Merlin wasn't looking at Arthur. He was looking at the flames, his eyes wide, full of so much sorrow, so much resignation. Tears were falling fast from his eyelids. He was saying something, but his voice too weak and breaths too stuttering for Arthur to hear.

But Arthur listened, stilling his own breaths. He thought Merlin was saying sorry.

Sorry. I'm so sorry.

Arthur hadn't been seeing things.

While a part of Arthur's mind became paralyzed by this revelation, another part – the part that dictated action – moved his body without his permission. His hands pulled Merlin closer to the fire. Those same hands removed Merlin's sodden, ragged shirt. They tended to Merlin's wounds, using the tattered shirt to clean the cuts, some left over sticks to splint his arm, wrapping him in the rolls of cloth Gaius liked to have all the knights and Merlin, even the king, carry. Arthur's hands covered Merlin in a shirt from Arthur's pack. Arthur's hands shed him of his mail and doublet, and changed him into something dry and warm.

Arthur's hands lifted Merlin gently, easing the thinner man against his side. They wrapped them both in the only blanket left to them, gathering what little heat they had between them and the heat the fire was giving them.

The paralyzed part of Arthur's mind thought only of Merlin and magic.

Merlin had magic.

Merlin was a sorcerer.

Arthur wondered if this was a dream. Merlin can't have magic. He's an idiot - a bumbling, self-sacrificing idiot who was too loyal and too stupid and too... too... too bloody _Merlin_.

"M'sorry."

Arthur looked down at Merlin – shaking, twitching Merlin, tears streaming one after the other down his pale face. His breathing was even more erratic, each breath a hiccup and a shudder, and for a moment Arthur panicked, thinking Merlin was suffocating.

Then he realized Merlin was sobbing.

"M'Sorry. So sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to. Sorry, sorry, sorry..."

Arthur wished Merlin would stop, wanted to tell him to shut up because maybe... maybe Arthur could pretend it hadn't happened.

But Merlin wouldn't stop – sobbing, shaking, apologizing, begging.

"Please. Don't hate me. I'm sorry."

Then Merlin was sobbing so hard he couldn't speak at all. He could barely breathe.

Arthur wrapped both arms around Merlin – so he wouldn't fall, that was why, the idiot was shaking so hard.

"Why?" Arthur asked. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Scared," Merlin said, his voice like a child's and so small Arthur could barely hear it. Merlin sniffed. "M'sorry." He renewed his weeping.

"Why use it at all, then?" Arthur asked irritably.

"Born with it."

"Impossible."

He could feel Merlin shaking his head. "S'true."

Arthur clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grate together. "Why now? After all this time, if you were so bloody scared, why use it now?"

Merlin sniffed wetly. "You were cold."

"I was cold," Arthur parroted. "_I_ was cold."

Then he laughed. "_I_ was cold. Your biggest bloody secret and you give it up because I was cold. Lords, Merlin..."

He looked down at the other man, more like a boy in Arthur's shirt that was too big for his skinny frame, pale and shaking and tired in more than just body. Arthur remembered sneaking into the bandit's camp, creeping up on the one's torturing Merlin as they cut him, making him cry out in agony.

"Why didn't you save yourself with your magic?" Arthur said.

"Hurt," Merlin said, and shuddered, hard, as though remembering that pain.

That agony.

"Lords, Merlin," Arthur breathed. He rested his chin on top of the boy's wet head. Arthur's eyes burned and blurred. He blinked. When he felt a tear roll down his face, he didn't bother to wipe it away.

"M'sorry," Merlin said, and Arthur could tell by the high, broken strain of his voice that he was weeping again.

"I'm not mad, Merlin," Arthur said, because he wasn't, and wasn't surprised that he wasn't. If anything, it made quite a bit of sense, all things considered.

What did surprise him was that he didn't care. Maybe because dangerous sorcerers didn't sob in your arms, begging for forgiveness. Mostly because magic or not, it was still Merlin, and it would always be Merlin. Bumbling, idiotic, self-sacrificing, loyal Merlin who, hurting and scared, gave up his secrets and summoned fire because his master was cold.

Lords, how much more Merlin could you get?

"I'm not mad," Arthur said, tightening his hold on his broken manservant. Because Merlin was cold, and rather unsteady even when only sitting up, that was why. That was all. Nothing to do with reassuring him. Not because Arthur had nearly lost him. Not one bit.

"We will need to talk about it," Arthur said. "But I won't burn you on a pyre or boot you out of Camelot, if that's what you're worried about."

Merlin made a sound that Arthur thought may have been a weak laugh. "Might have... crossed my mind."

"I can imagine." And, funnily enough, Arthur could. What a hell of a burden to have to carry – being born with magic in a world that either abused or hated magic.

"You'll be all right, Merlin," Arthur said. "I swear it."

When the rain had stopped, both men were warm and Arthur was sure Merlin would live another day (and learned that Merlin was rubbish at healing spells when he tried to command Merlin to heal himself) he brought Merlin home, where Gaius fixed what Arthur couldn't.

It was funny. Of all the questions Arthur had, of all the things that he wanted to say, the only question that seemed to matter was, "All right, Merlin?"

And the only answer that mattered was a smile and a, "Yeah, much better."

The End

A/N: Well, there you have it, my very first reveal fic. Man those are hard :/

Just so you all know, I do take story suggestions. I can't promise that I'll be able to tackle every suggestion made - plot bunnies are fickle things - but I do love prompts. But no romance, no slash, no OC centric, no gender-switching and no mpregs. I don't write such things and I don't make exceptions. But AUs and future/modern fic ideas are totally welcome.


	2. Snake Charmer

Rating: K+

Characters: Merlin

Summary: Merlin has a knack for snake summoning (or in which Merlin is being unintentionally a BAMF).

Snake Charmer

Merlin was neither a fan of snakes nor did he particularly loathe them. Mostly, he was neither here nor there about them except when in need of a quick means to scare a horse or two. Snakes were readily available, small, self-preserving and Merlin didn't have to worry about anyone killing one should it be spotted – unlike wolves, which would most definitely be spotted, killed, and leave Merlin wallowing in guilt and never summoning anything again. It was his number one rule that whatever he summoned had to be allowed to leave unharmed.

Snakes were convenient, and therefore Merlin's preference, one he'd never thought on, never having a reason to.

He definitely didn't think on it now, with his legs about to give out and his lungs burning from so much running. Life as Arthur's servant had helped him to maintain a healthy stamina but even his wiry body had its limits, and it was reaching that limit right now.

Merlin stumbled through a field of boulders toward the high cliff face only yards away. If he could just reach it, find a cave and lure them all into a tight space he could take the lot of them out with only a single spell, leaving them no opening to slip in unnoticed and take him down.

Merlin tripped on a rock, colliding chest first with a boulder and scraping his elbows. The wind was knocked from him, robbing him of the precious seconds needed to stay ahead of the bandits. He could hear them, now, calling to each other, and when he looked back, his heart leaped in his throat to see them picking their way through the field.

Merlin needed time, and his mind went straight to snakes. A field like this, with so many wonderfully cool places to hide, there was bound to be a bevy of snakes somewhere. Merlin hissed the spell that would call them, then he pushed from the boulder and kept running – more like stumbling, his strength bleeding fast and his body hating him for it.

The men behind him gained ground quickly. Merlin could hear them laughing, smug in the knowledge that their quarry was already cornered. Not one man had yet to yelp in fear, not one snake hissed.

When Merlin next tripped, scraping his palms and knees, he couldn't get up. Each gulped breath wasn't enough to give his body its much needed oxygen, and his legs had forgotten how to function.

"You gave us a good chase, boy," said the leader – big, smelly and reveling in the fact that he'd captured himself a skinny, helpless serving boy. He gave Merlin a kick to the ribs, knocking him onto his side. "I'll give you that."

The other men laughed.

Then they cursed, back-pedaling as though Merlin had suddenly sprouted wings and horns and become a dragon. Merlin stared at them over his shoulder from where he was sprawled, frowning. Far be it from him to complain about enemies making a hasty retreat but it never boded well when they seemed to retreat for no reason.

Merlin heard rasping, like the sound Kilgarrah's scales would make when he settled himself on the rocks. Merlin snapped his head around.

His jaw dropped.

The biggest damn snake he had ever seen rose from among the stones. It was as huge as Kilgarrah, its scales mottled gray and brown like the rocks around it. It regarded the bandits below it with red slitted eyes. Then it hissed, baring its great fangs and raising a crown of webbed spikes around its head.

The bandits screamed, turned and ran, shouting and whimpering like children. Only once the bandits were specks in the distance did the snake turn its gaze on Merlin. Merlin tensed, spells whipping through his mind and his hand half-raised at the ready. But the snake merely bowed its head and slithered away, scales scraping on stone.

Merlin watched its departure in bewilderment. Then he laughed.

He amended his former opinion. He bloody _loved_ snakes.

The End


	3. Episode Discussion of 5x5

I apologize that this isn't a story, and apologize for subjecting you to my need to get some things off my chest. A story will replace this, I promise, but I need to vent a little as various frustrations have become a plot bunny road block that I need to remove if I'm to write anything. In which case, the below rant will then be moved to the author's note at the end of the story.

I'm going to say now, because I need to - concerning the episode 5.05 - I do not think Merlin was an idiot. I do not think he screwed up. I do not hate him for making the decision he made. I think he was dealt a very bad hand this episode. He had two choices before him: choose magic and let Arthur die or reject magic once again so that Arthur can live.

Worst decision anyone would have to make, _ever_. But I knew what his decision would be right off, because this was Arthur and Merlin will always do what is best for Arthur. I was not angry with Merlin, I was sad for him, all the more so when his decision blew up in his face. The poor guy just can't win, seriously. He tries to help destiny (when he attempted to save Uther as Dragoon, hoping the result would also be Arthur seeing some good in magic) and it screws him over. He tries to reject destiny, and it screws him over. He is constantly being put in a place where destiny either doesn't happen or he can't allow it to happen for Arthur's sake. How is this poor kid not monumentally depressed, yet? Oh, wait, he is, that's why he doesn't smile as much these days.

The thing is, I knew as soon as Merlin made the decision he did that most of fandom would rip him a new one for it. I thought I was ready for it but, to be honest, I wasn't, and I find myself a lot more annoyed by people's reactions than by what happened in this episode. Personally, I don't think it's fair to blame Merlin for the decision he made. Had he chosen magic over Arthur then it would have run the risk of portraying him as selfish, and had Merlin chosen magic, even when he had discovered Arthur would be safe after all, I still think Merlin would have agonized some over his decision, thinking himself not as loyal to Arthur as the thought. It was a rock and a hard place, and I can't blame Merlin for his decision one bit. I know many of you will disagree with me, especially if you're still feeling frustrated, and that's fine, but this is the way I see it and I felt strongly the need to get my view out there. Especially if there is anyone else who happens to share the same views.

Now hopefully this will have helped me get back into a writing frame of mind. Again, it's cool if you don't agree with me. But if you respond please no anti-Merlin or anti-show or anti-writer sentiments (and by that I mean something along the lines of "grrr, Merlin is such an idiot! I really don't like him right now." That kind of thing). Although positive outlooks are much encouraged. I could do with some positive right about now (maybe we all could).


	4. Only Human

Rating: PG

Characters: Merlin, Leon, Percival, Arthur, Gaius

Summary: Arthur makes a mistake, Merlin nearly freezes, and Leon has something to say about it.

A/N: As promised, an actual story! And I would like to both apologize for making the last chapter a rant while also thank everyone for their feedback. The discussions were awesome, and interesting, and fun. They also helped me round up those stubborn plot bunnies. I'm sorry I wasn't able to reply to everyone, but rest assured that what you had to say was read by me and was of interest. A lot of fascinating points were made, things I hadn't even considered, and it was fun being able to discover that there was so much more depth to the episode than we realized.

A/N 2: Written for smcstrav at The Gentable over on Livejournal.

Only Human

The weather, Merlin decided wasn't actually weather but some sorcerer's pathetic attempt to bring down Arthur and his knights at a safe distance _and_ without it seeming like an act of sorcery. The temperature had been... not warm, but at least agreeable for the past three days, then decided it had had enough of being agreeable so dropped like a rock. Merlin's eyelids tried to freeze together every time he blinked. And if that wasn't enough for the weather – because apparently it wasn't – it decided to sleet.

And because the day wasn't miserable enough, one of the packs on the pack horses hadn't been strapped down properly (the pack Gwaine had tied, because the man couldn't handle a knot to save his life), and half the pack's contents had been lost before anyone realized it – contents that were about as important as the mud caking the bottom of Merlin's boots.

But did that matter to Arthur? No. Of course it didn't.

"Arthur, it's a pair of bloody gloves with a hole in the finger and a torn blanket. I think we can live without them," Merlin said.

"They are supplies that might still be salvageable. Besides, I liked those gloves," Arthur said.

Merlin glanced back between Gwaine and Percival to the road, the items in question no where in sight and with no way of knowing how far back they'd been lost. Merlin shivered, and had been shivering since the sleet began. He wasn't dressed for this weather, unlike the knights who had their armor, doublets and cloaks. He looked to Gwaine imploringly, not to do the searching for him but at least to have some help to make it easier, especially since it was his fault the pack hadn't been tied on properly in the first place.

"And don't even think of asking Gwaine to help, Merlin," Arthur called. "Gwaine, don't you dare help. It's Merlin's job, not yours."

Gwaine grimaced apologetically.

Heaving a shuddering sigh, Merlin turned his horse around and followed the road away from Camelot. Gwaine and Percival parted to let him by, gracing him with sympathetic looks.

It was when Camelot was out of sight that sleet became big fat flakes of snow. Which would have been preferable to the sleet if Merlin's jacket, shirt and hair hadn't been soaked through. The snow dusted both him and the horse, the cold soaking through the clothes deep into Merlin's skin and down to his bones, freezing his muscles until he thought for sure he was becoming an icicle.

He found the gloves lying on the side of the road. He dismounted to retrieve them, but what should have been his usual jaunty leap from the saddle turned into a graceless stumble, landing him hard on his knees. His body quaked as though palsied, his teeth chattering and no matter how he tried to lock his jaw, they wouldn't stop. He wanted to snatch the gloves up in anger but moved as though underwater, his fingers so stiff and his hand shaking so bad it took three tries before he was finally able to grip the gloves.

It took far too long for him to get to his feet, where he wobbled. It took even longer for his stiff body to climb into the saddle, for his stiff hands to get the horse to turn around and head back toward Camelot, to keep his juddering arms from thumping against his ribs.

This was bad, very bad, especially when his suddenly sluggish mind realized he could no longer feel his fingers or toes. But he was still alert... mostly. That was good. Gaius had warned them all time and again of the dangers of succumbing to the cold - that above all, should they find themselves lost in the snow and feeling tired enough to sleep to i_not_/i succumb to that exhaustion or they would be doomed.

Merlin spurned the horse into a gallop, racing against the elements and his own body. The wind from the horse's speed and the now was like a knife cutting through him, he hurt so much, and his heart seemed to skip beats as though stumbling over itself. Merlin's focus narrowed to the horse's mane and the snow now coating it until nothing else seemed to exist.

"Merlin? You all right, Merlin?"

Merlin looked up. He blinked owlishly at the guard now in front of him holding the reins, then at the stairs of the citadel.

_When did I get here_? was what he wanted to say. What came out of his mouth was a chattering, "H-h-h-huh?"

"You're looking done in, Merlin," the guard said, helping Merlin dismount without face-planting on the snowy ground. "You need to find yourself a fire, get warmed up. Maybe linger in the kitchens for a bit."

But Merlin shook his head and muttered, "Can't. Arthur needs his gloves." He swayed his way up the steps, then staggered through the doors. If there was a change in temperature then his body didn't feel it. What it did do was recognize that it was no longer outside, and suddenly Merlin found himself leaning against the wall, shivering too hard to move, almost too hard to breathe. He huddled into himself, arms folded tight across his chest and back hunched. Lords, he was so damn tired.

"Merlin?"

Merlin turned his numb head on his stiff neck to see Leon and Percival heading his way and looking rather concerned. Merlin made to straighten up and brush off the worry being aimed at him.

Moving, it seemed, was not a good idea with a body frozen solid, and Merlin felt himself begin to tip forward like a felled tree. Percival and Leon broke into a run, arriving just in time to catch him.

"Merlin!" Leon yelped.

"He's like ice," Percival said. He gathered Merlin up as though he were some swooning maiden, which Merlin felt distantly offended by, and he would have protested it if he could just find his voice. But talking, it seemed, wasn't worth the energy. Besides, Percival was warm as a furnace, the heat from his chest soaking little by little through Merlin's sopping jacket and shirt until Merlin thought he might be remembering what it was to be warm.

Which seemed like as good a time as any to finally give in to that exhaustion Gaius had warned him about.

~oOo~

Leon had always considered himself an open-minded man, had always tried to give others the benefit of the doubt rather than jumping straight to conclusions. Arthur was a fair man, he knew that, just as he knew that despite the fact that Arthur seemed to go out of his way to act as though Merlin didn't matter, Merlin did matter to the king, very much.

But there were times when even Leon wondered if Arthur could be a little careless with Merlin. Times when Arthur would feel frustrated, overwhelmed, and take it out on Merlin through excess chores or pointless tasks.

And Arthur had been frustrated. One of the lords had been treating his vassals unfairly, increasing taxes against Arthur's wishes and demanding a greater crop yield that couldn't be met. Lord Byron had passed it off as having "misheard" Arthur during the kingdom's last meeting on taxation, but this would be the third time Arthur had been misheard, and that meant figuring out how to deal with Lord Byron – whether it was possible to get him back in line, or if Arthur would have to strip him of his title and run the risk of it being seen as an overreaction, and so give those doubting lords more of a reason to doubt.

Leon understood Arthur's frustration, sympathized with it, but he did not think he could excuse the result. Merlin lay limp as a dead fish in Percival's arms, his eyes closed but his body shaking fit to fly apart. They ran through the halls all the way to Gaius' chambers, then startled the old man when they burst in, wasting no time on explanations as they brought Merlin to the fire.

No explanations were needed. Gaius took one look at Merlin, felt the boys hand, then face, sucked in a sharp breath and delegated.

"Here, Leon, pull my cot closer to the fire. Percival, lay him down. We need to get these wet clothes off him and quickly."

Merlin was like a rag doll as they worked him from his clothes, all floppy limbs despite the shivers still wracking him. His skin was white as a sheet as though the cold had absorbed the very blood from him. Leon felt suddenly ill as he helped to towel Merlin down. The cold had been biting even for a man layered in clothes and armor. For Merlin, in only his shirt and jacket, with practically no fat on his body, it must have been agony.

And Arthur had made him linger in that weather, for the sake of some bloody gloves.

With Merlin stripped down to his under things and dried, they covered him with as many blankets as were readily available, taking the one in Merlin's room and another stored in the cupboard. They had Merlin on his side facing the fire, the heat needing to reach his chest first according to Gaius. Merlin continued to shiver, which Gaius promised was a good thing even if it didn't seem like it.

"Will you watch Merlin for me?" Gaius said. "I need to prepare a warm broth and an elixir to stimulate blood flow. He might be a bit delirious should he wake up and I need someone to make sure he remains in the bed and covered."

Leon nodded once. "Yes, of course, Gaius."

It wasn't necessary for both he and Percival to stay, of course. Someone needed to alert the king that his manservant would be out of commission, but Leon was finding it difficult to be the one to go. Any other time he wouldn't have given it a second thought. However... Leon needed time, time to find the right words in which to broach the subject that was the king's treatment of his servant. To remind the king that although Merlin seemed far more resilient than his skinny body would imply, he was still human, and not the means by which the king could vent his frustrations.

"I should have gone," said Percival, breaking Leon from his thoughts. He looked over at the big man now seated on the stool by the bed, resting his chin on his fist as he nibbled the cuticle of his thumbnail. "I do better in the cold. It doesn't get to me as bad." He chuffed without humor. "Merlin shivers if there's a cool breeze."

Leon gave him a small, brief smile.

"Gwaine kept going on and on about it," Percival continued. "How Merlin shouldn't be left in the cold but it only made Arthur angry. Gwaine's going to kill him when he hears about this."

Leon stifled a wince. They all liked Merlin, were all protective of him in their own way, but Gwaine could be a downright mother hen about it. More like a mother wolverine, actually.

The conversation was interrupted by what sounded like a low, pained whimper, followed by Merlin shifting on the bed as if incredibly uncomfortable, twisting the blankets around him. Leon hurried to stand behind him, gripping his shoulder while Percival placed a large hand on the boy's dark head.

"Shh," Leon soothed. "Merlin, it's all right. Lie still, you're all right."

"L-L-Leon?" Merlin groaned.

"That's right. Do you know where you are?"

"C-cold."

"I know," Leon said, rubbing his shoulder. "But you'll warm up soon enough. Now, do you know where you are?"

He saw Merlin's eyelids flutter until they parted, and the eyeballs rolled almost drunkenly in the sockets.

"Chamber," he slurred.

"That's right. Gaius' chamber."

"Mm," Merlin said, and his eyes slid shut.

Only to pop wide open when Arthur came barreling through the door looking harried. Leon squeezed Merlin's shoulder, keeping him still when he attempted to rise weakly.

"Gaius, has Merlin returned, yet?" Arthur asked, sounding not like a man annoyed with a recalcitrant servant but a man concerned.

Gaius, crushing herbs in a bowl, tilted his head toward the bed. "See for yourself, sire. I only ask that you disturb him as little as possible. He was near frozen and his heart may be somewhat weak until he warms."

Arthur's face visibly paled. He muttered under his breath, "Damn it," and move swiftly to the bed. Leon had felt Merlin tense beneath his hand, the boy's breathing having increased, but exhaustion getting the better of him and sending him back to sleep. Arthur stood by the bed between Leon and Percival, looking down at his servant with his guilt laid bare on his face. He scraped a hand down his mouth, then leaned froward with his hands on the bed's edge.

After a moment of tense silence, Arthur asked, "Will he be all right?"

"In time," Gaius said. "It is possible he may fall ill from this, and I want him resting and warm, so it may be some time before he is able to resume his duties."

Arthur nodded. "Yes. All the time he needs." He sighed, then shook his head. "What the hell did I ask of him?" he muttered.

Leon cleared his throat. "Sire?"

"Hm?" Arthur said without looking up.

"If I may... speak freely."

"You may."

"You often ask... rather difficult tasks of him, sire." Leon took a deep, fortifying breath. "He should not have been sent back out for such a menial purpose."

That prompted Arthur to look at him in surprise, which Leon supposed was understandable. Leon knew his place, knew when he needed to speak out and when he needed to accede to trust, but this was the first time that Leon had ever said anything concerning Merlin's well being. Not that Leon had never cared for Merlin's well being, simply that he had never had to what with Gwaine usually the one to speak up in Merlin's defense.

But Gwaine wasn't here right now, Leon was, and something had needed to be said. Leon steeled himself for whatever consequences it would bring.

The consequence was Arthur's features softening, part in regret, part in admiration.

"I know," Arthur said softly. "I was being a... _petulant_ fool. And if I am ever that much of a petulant fool again then you have my permission to say so. Especially if it involves me taking it out on Merlin." He fell quiet and still. Then, with a pained, hollow expression, "He could have died out there."

Knowing Arthur, he would agonize over this for some time. Knowing Merlin, he would forgive Arthur, but Arthur's guilt would linger.

But it would be a good guilt, Leon knew. One that would make sure that an incident such as this was never repeated. Arthur, though king, was still human, just as Merlin was human. He was prone to making mistakes and acting foolish just as any man.

While wise enough to learn from those mistakes. Which, if Leon were to be honest, had not been the case once upon a time, when Arthur was a young and impetuous prince who saw the world as his for the taking.

That prince was gone, replaced by a king, imperfect as any man, but smart enough to know it and learn from it.

And Leon could have sworn that change hadn't started until after Merlin had arrived.

Arthur reached out and gave Merlin's arm a gentle squeeze.

"Arth'r?" Merlin murmured. "Geet your dinner ina secn'd."

Arthur chuckled softly. "No, Merlin, you won't. You'll lay there like a lazy oaf and rest, that's an order."

"M'kay."

"And if I ever tell you to go and fetch a pair of ragged gloves in the middle of an ice storm... or, anything in an ice storm... you have my permission to disobey me."

"Gladly," Merlin sighed.

Percival chuckled, and Arthur and Leon exchanged a smile.

The End

A/N: Kakashi95girl - I don't know if the show hinted at Mordred possibly being aware enough to have overheard Merlin but that would be interesting if that was the case. But seeing as how Mordred isn't like Morgana, I think he would either A: turn against Merlin more than Arthur or B: be so appalled by the idea of being the one who kills Arthur he would leave to keep it from happening. I think that whatever happens to cause Mordred to turn against Arthur will either be because of something Arthur does or because of some outside influence (Mordred's own version of Morgause polluting his mind, so to speak). Although I get the feeling that it'll be because of something Arthur does. My personal theory - more like a hope, really - is that while we start to see Arthur becoming more accepting of magic, we also see Mordred becoming less accepting of it, until it reaches a point where Mordred is the one who sees magic as evil and having corrupted Arthur, so that he believes the only way to save the kingdom is to kill Arthur. I don't know if that will actually be the case but I think it would be interesting if it was. I'm rather looking forward to seeing how the show gets Mordred to turn against Arthur.


	5. To Fall and Rise Again

Rating: K+, Gen

Characters: Merlin, Gaius, Arthur, knights

Warnings: Mentions of torture

Summary: Funny how it's always the smallest things that undo us.

A/N: Written for Sarievenea, whose wish is my command when it comes to whump, angst and Merlin. I've been wanting to write something like this for some time because, really, how has Merlin not had a mental breakdown, yet? Poor boo.

To Fall and Rise Again

It was tripping over a goblet someone had dropped that undid Merlin, which was rather sad and pathetic. After all, it had only been - what was it, now, nearly two weeks? - That Merlin had been the very picture of mass destruction and cold calculation.

It had been a sorcerer king, of all things – rather than the usual king or sorcerer, or king and sorcerer. No, it had to be two rolled into one – who had been plaguing Camelot with curses and raids. And, of course, Arthur being Arthur, he needed to deal with it himself. But sorcerer kings, it seemed, were smarter than your average king. A trap had been set, sprung, and Arthur and his men spirited away to some evil tower next to impossible to get to unless you were a nomadic magic-wielding mortal with a superiority complex a mile wide.

They had strung Merlin up, being the smallest of the group and, therefore, automatically considered the weakest. They would drag him from the cells, strip him of his shirt, hang him by his wrists from a hook then beat him to their heart's content. Each time Merlin was returned to the cells, he was a little more bloodied, a lot more bruised, and Arthur and the knights would rage with impotent fury.

Merlin would have acted sooner, but if asked about it he would plead the defense of a good sucker punch to the back of the head that had left him dazed during the capture, and then the beatings keeping him dazed during their captivity. It was hard to think what spells to use when you were seeing double and the world refused to stop tilting and whirling. It was during his fifth beating when they cut him down and let him crumple in a heap of broken bones to the floor that he found his magical muse – a piece of root that had squeezed its way through the dungeon floor, a plucky bit of plant struggling against the darkness and all that was impenetrable. Merlin had loved that little bit of plant the moment he saw it. He had reached for it with trembling, bloody hands, touched it with something akin to reverence, mentally praising its fortitude.

Then he gave it his blessing to finish what it had started. A flash of gold in his eyes, the plant writhed and the tower rumbled. Roots, branches and vines ripped through stone and mortar as though it were crumbling clay, tearing the abominable structure from the foundations up. Vines had lifted Merlin to his trembling legs and supported him by passing him along from root to vine to branch until he reached the dungeons.

"The forest outside is enchanted and doesn't like this place, I guess," was Merlin's easy explanation, since it was mostly the truth. Evil towers did have a way of discouraging plant growth in a given area, and the plants had responded readily to Merlin's magic as though they had been waiting for it.

Merlin had led everyone to safety, lingering long enough to ensure the last man had made it out, and also long enough for him to hear the dying words of the sorcerer king.

Arthur has sown the seeds to his own destruction. It is foretold a Druid will be his undoing. Blah, blah, blah and nothing Merlin hadn't already heard, that didn't already haunt his nightmares and tear at his heart.

"Not while I still have breath," Merlin had said, and with an outstretched hand and a word brought what remained of the tower down on the sorcerer king.

It had all been quite heroic to the knights (that is, what they knew of it – namely Merlin having escaped and leading them to safety). It had been both satisfying and terrible to Merlin (the king had deserved it, but it made Merlin wonder – as these situations did these days – what it was turning him into). The knights had made a litter for Merlin out of branches when his strength had given out, cared for him as they made the long march to the nearest manor where Lord Gale was able to provide them aid. They had returned to Camelot three days later when Merlin was deemed stable enough. He'd gotten to ride in a carriage – a nice plush thing with padded seats. It had been wonderful.

That should have been their happily ever after for the time being (that is, until the next crisis). They had returned home, Merlin was left in Gaius' care, a sorcerer king was dead and alls well that ends well.

But no, because Merlin had to get sick, tripling the potency of his dreams and slowing the healing of his broken arm, ribs and his many cuts and bruises. He would thrash as he dreamed of Arthur impaled over and over again by Mordred's sword; of magic itself taking the form of all those he had lost – Freya, Will, Balinor – and damning him for denying magic's return once again; of what would have happened if Merlin had told Arthur to accept magic, of returning to find Mordred dead and Arthur another Uther ordering another purge.

He dreamed of destiny like a tower crumbling around him, crushing him to nothing.

And it was tripping over a bloody goblet that was the last straw.

He was on the mend; still a bit weak but at least able to get around, even if all he could do was fold a few of Arthur's shirts one-handed. Better than lying about prey to his own thoughts as far as he was concerned, and even Gaius had to admit that moving would do him a world of good.

Then came the goblet. Merlin stepped on it, slipped forward and landed on his good arm. Pain ripped up his good wrist, more pain screaming through his jarred arm and ribs. He toppled onto his side, jarring his ribs a second time and crying out.

No one came running to see what had happened and what the noise was about. The hall was empty, quiet, as though the castle itself had been abandoned and Merlin left behind. Merlin pulled himself over to the wall on his one good arm, his intention to brace himself against it and pull himself up.

He couldn't bring himself to do it. If he got up, it would cause more pain. He would have to go to Gaius, get his wrist checked, and would no doubt get a good scolding for not paying better attention to where he was going. Gaius would force more potions on him and confine him inside his room until he was better. Then Merlin would heal, return to his duties, have to ride with Arthur and face whatever new danger was being thrown at him. There would be more wicked kings, more sorcerers, more ultimatums with no right answer and more reminders of the doom slowly crawling straight toward Arthur.

Merlin wondered what the bloody hell was the point. If this was all so damn inevitable that even the gods decreed it then why create him at all? Why task him with this duty of protecting a man they were just going to kill? Why give their creation a destiny if they did not have the patience to do what they created him for and let him see it through? What was he if not their envoy?

Their toy. Their plaything. Their cosmic joke.

Merlin curled into himself against the wall, knees to his chest and arms tucked tightly behind them. He was shaking, from the pain or the thoughts he had tried so hard not to think finally assaulting his mind, he couldn't tell.

Then he cried – silent tears chasing each other down his face, hanging from his jaw, dropping to his knees.

What was the point of him, if all he had been created to do was to fail?

Merlin sucked in a shuddering, hiccuping breath. He pressed his fist to his mouth, trying so hard to fight the sobs wanting to rip from his chest. He felt sick enough to throw up, cold, and so utterly tired with an exhaustion no sleep would remedy. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to his knees.

What was the point if he was just going to keep losing those he cared about?

What was the point if all it meant was more pain?

What was the point?

When Merlin next sucked in a breath, the sob escaped, punching from him like a fist.

"Merlin?"

Merlin flinched violently.

No. No, no, no, not him, anyone but him. Merlin glanced up and his heart launched itself into his throat.

It was them, all of them – Arthur, the knights, heading straight toward Merlin with identical looks of urgency and concern. Merlin quickly tried to scrape away the tears with his sleeve but he was shaking so badly, the tears falling as though all the moisture in him could no longer be contained. They were going to see him, see those tears and ask him what was wrong and he was going to have to lie, again and he couldn't, he just...

Lords, he couldn't deal with them right now, he couldn't deal with anyone.

"Merlin, mate, you all right?" Gwaine demanded. He was the first to reach him, crouching next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Merlin shook his head while rubbing frantically at his eyes. "Fine, I'm fine. Just tripped, that's all, I'll be fine."

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said sternly. "You're shaking fit to fly apart. You can't tell me that's _fine_. Did you injure yourself? What am I saying? Of course you did, don't try to deny it. Can you stand?"

Merlin nodded. "Think so."

All the same, Arthur had Percival help him up, which Merlin made no complaints about and was, in fact, secretly grateful for. The shaking was even worse upright, and had Merlin not had someone holding him up he would have dropped back to the floor like a rock.

They brought him to Gaius' in what felt like no time at all, practically bursting through the door as they often did when carrying someone injured. It was such a common enough occurrence that Gaius merely raised his eyebrow, then calmly set aside whatever concoction he'd working on to tend to his ward.

Merlin had been placed upright on the cot. He couldn't stop shaking, and it seemed to have gotten worse. But Gaius wasn't considered Camelot's best physician merely because the king had said so. One look at Merlin, at the desperation Merlin knew was glaringly obvious on his face, and suddenly Gaius was shooing the knights out the door with promises of an update.

Gaius closed the door behind the last knight, then turned to Merlin. "Better?"

"I... I don't..." Merlin's stomach clenched and he swallowed convulsively. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Gaius could move fast for an old man. He grabbed the chamber pot used for just such occasions, holding it in one hand while forcing Merlin to lie down with the other by pressing it against his shoulder. The sick never came, instead sitting heavy in Merlin's stomach like an empty threat. Gaius put the pot within easy reach on a stool all the same. Only after he wetted a rag and placed it on Merlin's forehead did he begin to check him over.

"You're wrist is bruised but otherwise the rest of your injuries are no worse," Gaius said with some confusion. He went to check Merlin's pulse at the wrist, and frowned severely. "Goodness, Merlin, your skin is like ice." He once again moved quickly, grabbing the blanket from his own cot and draping it over Merlin. "Merlin, what happened, and don't tell me all this is because you tripped."

"I did, Gaius, I swear. I just tripped and then... I started shaking and I can't stop and I..." Merlin sniffed wetly. "Gaius. I don't know if I can do this anymore."

"Do what?" Gaius asked absently as he searched his collection of remedies on his table.

"This. All of it. Arthur, destiny, having to deny magic again and again. What's the point of it all, Gaius, if I'm just meant to fail? How am I to fulfill destiny if not even the gods are willing to see it through?"

Gaius stopped his searching. He straightened and looked at his ward. But the sadness on his face did only to bury the pain deeper into Merlin's heart.

"Oh, my boy," Gaius said soothingly. He moved closer to Merlin until he was able to reach over him and rub his back through the blanket. He sighed heavily, wearily. "I know things seem bleak but this would not be the first time we've weathered dark uncertainties."

"I know," Merlin said. "I know but... sometimes it doesn't seem to end. Destiny will come just within my grasp only to flee, like it's playing games. Like the gods are laughing at me. Like I exist merely as a joke!"

Suddenly, Gaius was lifting Merlin by his arm. He settled next to him, put his arms around him and held him as his mother used to those times when Merlin wondered if he was a monster. Merlin trembled as he wept silently against Gaius' shoulder.

"Merlin," Gaius said firmly. "You are no joke. Nor anyone's plaything. I do not - _will_ not – believe for one moment that you are here simply for some... _divine_ being's amusement. Just as I do not believe our futures are set in stone. They are what we make of them."

But Merlin shook his head. "None can escape their destiny."

"I suppose not," Gaius said. "But I do believe it is possible to reject it. I believe, Merlin, that Arthur, Albion and magic are not your destiny simply because the gods willed it so, but because it is just as much your desire as theirs to see it happen. You are more than some random vessel to fulfill a prophecy, Merlin. I honestly believe the gods knew what they were doing when they chose you."

"Why did they choose me?" Merlin asked wearily.

Gaius tapped Merlin's chest, over his heart. "This," he said. "There would have been no point to any of it if you did not care for the place and the people you were sent to protect. I know you feel as though the very world itself is against you, but the dark always proceeds the dawn."

Merlin chuffed without humor. "Wish I at least had a candle until then."

"Well," Gaius said with a light chuckle, "I would imagine, hope, even, that that is my purpose. I know you're tired, Merlin, but it is to be expected. You have been through much and no man is above reaching a breaking point or two."

Gaius heaved himself up off the cot, but kept hold of Merlin as he gently lowered him back to the pillow. He removed Merlin's boots, then had him swallow several tonics, all of which he warned would make him drowsy. It was as Merlin was starting to drift off that Gaius opened the door and called the knights back in, happy that they had at least opted to wait at the bottom of the stairs rather than by the door this time.

"How is he?" Arthur asked.

"Fine, fine. Just a... little overwhelmed I suppose you could say."

"Everything that happened finally caught up to him," Gwaine stated. "We were wondering if it might. Those bastards did a bloody number on him but the way he's been acting you'd think it never happened."

"He's..." Arthur cleared his throat. "Certainly far more resilient than I sometimes give him credit for." Silence, then. "We'd be dead if he hadn't led us out."

"Maybe it's just me but he seems to do that a lot," Percival said. "Save our necks."

There were murmurs of agreement.

"Well, you can pay him back by letting him have the peace and quiet he needs," Gaius said. "In fact I think the lot of you could do with some peace and quiet. No hunts, no tournaments, and no getting into trouble if it can be helped."

"Ah, Gaius, do you honestly think us the types to invite trouble," Gwaine said with a smile in his voice.

"Yes," Gaius said easily. "Now off. I have a patient who needs to sleep."

Merlin managed to crack one eye open enough to see the knights linger a little, watching Merlin with what seemed to be a mixture of fondness and concern. Even Arthur.

Especially Arthur.

Then they left.

Merlin closed his eye. He thought, to hell with destiny. This wasn't about destiny. It had never been about destiny. It had been about friends, family, freedom and peace, and a king who was like a brother. Merlin wasn't fulfilling destiny because it was what destiny demanded. Gaius was right – he was fulfilling it because he wanted to.

And he _would_ fulfill it.

The End


	6. Rest

Rating: K+

Characters: Gaius, Merlin, Arthur, Gwen, Leon

Summary: Tag to "With All my Heart" so lots and lots of spoilers. Exhaustion was inevitable, but this is a little more than exhaustion. Sick Merlin and protective Gaius.

Rest

"Merlin has collapsed."

Gaius glanced up at Leon looking breathless and harried as he stood in the doorway. As there were merits to being an old man, there were also merits to being a physician, such as the ability to look immediately professional and worried rather than giving in right away to surprise. Otherwise Gaius' lack of alarm might have raised suspicions.

Because Gaius wasn't surprised, not in the least bit, because Merlin collapsing had not been a matter of if, after all, but a matter of when. Gaius quickly gathered his kit and followed Leon from the chamber.

Merlin was remarkably resilient, even for one possessing magic. But with all that had happened, between constantly keeping up with Gwen's machinations, being poisoned and injured barely over a week ago (and not getting proper rest after. Merlin could argue that a good night's sleep did him a world of good but the shadows under his eyes, his persistent limp and his general listlessness had begged otherwise), having aged himself twice with the addition of a transformation spell and then summoning the White Goddess... lords, it was a miracle the boy could still stand. It had only been the other day that they had returned from cleansing Gwen, and though Merlin had crashed the moment he was in his room (Arthur being kind enough to give him the rest of the day off) he had been on his feet only a few hours later, helping Gaius whether Gaius had liked it or not – which he mostly hadn't.

A small, spiteful part of Gaius thought, s_erves the boy right_. Merlin really was rather terrible when it came to allowing his body time to heal; always needing to be up and about, as though the next threat were just around the corner. Which was why another, larger part of Gaius couldn't blame the poor lad. Sadly, the next threat often _was_ around the corner. And if those threats weren't keeping Merlin up at night, denying him the rest he sorely needed, then they were getting him to skip meals or run about expending energy he didn't have.

Well, no more. Merlin was getting rest whether anyone liked it or not.

Leon brought Gaius to the location of the collapse – the king's chambers, also not to Gaius' surprise. Then they entered, and Gaius' steps faltered.

Merlin was huddled against the wall, legs up, forehead pressed to his knees and a rather large and foul-smelling puddle of sick only a foot away. Gwen, the real Gwen, _their_ Gwen, was doing what only true Gwen would do – kneeling next to Merlin and rubbing his back while speaking soothing words to him. Each of Merlin's inhales made him shudder, and each exhale was accompanied by a low, piteous moan warning that he was liable to be sick again at any moment. Arthur was standing off to the side, arms crossed and glaring at Merlin.

Gaius was surprised. Surprised and alarmed. He had expected exhaustion, he hadn't expected illness. Knowing how draining the aging spell alone would be, Gaius and Merlin had found a way to tweak the transformation magic to lessen the burden of having to maintain so much power. Face, voice and mannerism was all that had been altered (and even then it had been an experience Merlin swore up and down that he never wanted to go through again, and that if he did he was taking it out on Gaius by enchanting his leeches with wings), but apparently both Gaius and Merlin had underestimated the potency of such a combination coupled with summoning a Goddess.

It was possible that it was a miracle Merlin wasn't _dead_. The thought nearly made Gaius shudder.

"Gaius, the idiot's been drinking again," Arthur said, his voice like a slap pulling Gaius harshly from his thoughts. Good, because he needed to focus. He hurried over to his ward and lowered himself with a creak of old bones and a grunt in front of Merlin.

"I hope you learned your lesson, Merlin," Arthur went on. "Serves you right, really."

"Arthur!" Gwen admonished.

Arthur shrugged, nonplussed. "He brought it on himself, Gwen. I'm starting to suspect he spends more time in the tavern than Gwaine does..."

Gaius tuned him out, focusing on Merlin's dark head. He extricated an arm from where it was clenched against the boy's stomach as though it were possible to hold in the contents. The hand was shaking and pale. When Gaius pressed his fingers over the blue veins of the wrist, he felt the pulse thready and fast. And as if that wasn't enough, the skin was clammy and uncomfortably warm.

Arthur's voice continued to drone on and on about the evils of haunting taverns so gratuitously.

"Merlin, can you lift your head for me?" Gaius asked.

Merlin did so, slowly, shakily, his bloodshot eyes squinting against the light and his breath catching from pain. A headache then, too. He was pale verging on gray, darker beneath the eyes and the very picture of misery as he begged Gaius without words to, please, just make it stop.

Suddenly, his eyes widened and he lurched to the side. His body convulsed, heaved and choked as it added to the puddle already on the floor.

Arthur sighed. "Lovely, something else for you to clean up once you've sobered. Really, Merlin, do I have to send out a decree to every tavern banning you? Because I will. It might actually make you useful if I did that, come to think of it-"

"Sire, would you please stop!" Gaius snapped. It surprised even himself to hear it, a surprised reflected in Gwen's sudden discomfort and the way Arthur, wide-eyed, clicked his jaw shut.

But if Gaius was meant to feel guilty, should worry about being thrown in the stocks for such impertinence, it wasn't happening. He felt nothing but irritation, concern, fear, and all that mattered was Merlin still heaving with nothing left to purge. When finally finished, Merlin began to slump and would have ended up face first in the mess had Gaius not caught him and eased him upright.

"This is not the result of too much mead," Gaius said, his voice calm but sharp. "He has a fever. We need to get him back to my chambers so that I can treat him properly. Help me get him up."

Leon hurried forward to do just that, and after a bewildered blink Arthur soon added his own strength to the effort. He had an arm around Merlin's chest and a troubled look on his face.

"His heart is racing, Gaius. What's wrong with him?"

"A stomach ailment, I imagine. I'll know more once I've looked him over more properly."

They must have made quite a sight – the king and a Camelot knight half-carrying, half-dragging a servant between them, with the queen close by at the ready with the recently cleaned chamber pot, and Gaius leading the way. But even on reaching Gaius' chambers Gaius didn't have them stop until they were in Merlin's room. Once Merlin was lowered onto the bed, barely staying upright, Gaius shooed them out with a gentle promise to let them know of Merlin's state once Gaius had checked him over. Gaius barely made it back in time to Merlin's side to keep him from toppling over.

"Sry, Gaius," Merlin slurred, wobbly even with Gaius mostly supporting him by the shoulders. "Was feelin' fine th's smornin'."

Gaius pressed his lips into a thin line, then removed Merlin's jacket and helped the boy struggle out of his shirt.

It had always been a suspicion of Gaius' that Merlin often worked magic without realizing it; that the reason the boy was able to go on for so long, to give into exhaustion only when he was home and knowing everyone was safe (or as close to safe as possible) was because his magic could act not unlike adrenaline, giving Merlin the energy he needed when adrenaline itself wasn't enough. He had once asked Merlin about this, and though Merlin had been intrigued by the idea he had no way of knowing if this was the case other than the fact that exhaustion always seemed to hit him the hardest when he was home.

Gaius peeled the red shirt from Merlin's body and grimaced at the collection of bruises splashed across his back and ribs. Gaius had thought he was going to have a heart attack when Merlin had told him about the spill from the cliff. Thank goodness Merlin had been carrying all those supplies, the only explanation other than a bit of subconscious magical intervention as to how Merlin didn't end up with a broken back or, worse, dead.

Gaius made sure to pat Merlin on the unbruised part of his shoulder. "It's not your fault, Merlin. Although I do wish you would take more time to rest. Your magic may help you endure but you're still human. Your body can only take so much for so long." He helped ease Merlin onto his side for the time being, needing to fetch various remedies and a salve for the bruising.

Merlin had gained much physical strength over the years – inevitable when your job included lugging armor about and carrying heavy supplies. But Merlin was still such a slender, lanky lad, most especially when compared to the knights. And shirtless while lying on his side he looked small, almost frail. He was also starting to shiver.

Gaius moved quickly gathering the needed supplies – the salve, the potions and a bit of mint to help the stomach. He moved just as quickly, but gently, plying Merlin with various treatments then coating his back with the paste that would aid him against the bruising and pain. Once done, he sat Merlin up, helped him into his nightshirt, then eased him back onto his side and covered him with his blanket.

Merlin, already tired and made more so by the tinctures, was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Gaius sat on the edge of the bed, watching Merlin sleep. Lords, even prone with his eyes closed the boy looked bone tired, as though his exhaustion went far too deep for sleep to touch. Gaius rested his hand on Merlin's head, ignoring the dampness of it and the clamminess of the scalp underneath. Merlin was warm, but not burning up, which was a good thing. As long as the fever didn't climb then Merlin would be fine, eventually.

Merlin did so bloody much for this kingdom.

With a sigh, Gaius left his ward to his sleep to go and prepare more medicine.

Arthur was waiting for him downstairs, standing and trying rather poorly not to look anxious. It was not a surprise, but it did make Gaius pause briefly on the steps before moving on to his work bench.

"He's resting," Gaius said, collecting what he needed to make those tinctures that would bring down the fever and calm Merlin's stomach. "Although it may be a few days before he's able to work."

"He can take all the time he needs," Arthur said soberly.

Gaius nodded. "Thank you, sire." Then, "I must apologize, sire, for taking such a tone with you earlier." Even though he was not yet sorry and doubted he ever would be. Propriety demanded an apology, that was all.

"No, Gaius, don't," Arthur said with a wave of his hand. "You have every right to your frustration. I had foolishly misjudged the situation and was acting the buffoon because of it."

The sound of a chair scraping pulled Gaius from his mixing. He turned, raising an eyebrow at Arthur now slumped in a chair, his arms on the table, hands clasped, and his gaze distant.

"I don't know why I thought he was drunk," Arthur said. "I've seen him when drunk, Gaius. That man can barely handle a single tankard of mead. He was perfectly fine when he came in. A little wobbly after a while but not even remotely drunk. Then he dropped – just dropped, Gaius. Like a puppet with its strings cut. And what's my first thought? That he's drunk despite all evidence to the contrary." Suddenly, his eyes widened and he looked up at Gaius fearfully. "You don't think it's because of the cliff? I've known men who sustained injuries and seemed fine until... they weren't."

It was a rare thing to see the young king look so helpless, but he was looking it now, and Gaius realized with much softening that Arthur had been afraid – honestly afraid. And when afraid, Arthur did one of two things – grab the nearest sword and fight what frightened him, or pretend – hope, even – that the situation wasn't as serious as it seemed.

Smiling reassuringly, Gaius shook his head. "No, sire. I checked him thoroughly and any hidden damage would have manifested sooner."

Arthur frowned severely. "That crone. She did something-"

"No, sire. The... er... Dorma is not known for her cruelty. She would not help one merely to hurt the other. This is merely just an illness of the kind anyone could fall prey to at any time."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "But... he will be all right," he said.

"The fever is not high," Gaius said. "As long as it does not increase then he should be fine."

"Thank you, Gaius," Arthur said. He stood. "Please let me know if there is any change."

"I will, sire."

Arthur left, Gaius watching him go, his frustration with the king now a distant memory not worth pondering over. Gaius finished making his tinctures and took them to Merlin's room to put them within easy reach. Merlin was curled on his side, and Gaius was happy to note that he actually looked relaxed. He felt Merlin's forehead. The fever hadn't changed, and it wouldn't for another day or two, but that it hadn't increased remained a promising sign. He adjusted the blanket so that it covered Merlin's shoulders. After another quick touch of the boy's head, Gaius left him to his long-needed and well deserved rest.

The End


	7. Responsibility

Rating: K+

Warnings: Mentions of abuse.

Summary: Arthur isn't just responsible for a servant, he's responsible for a human being. Set in early season one, some time after Valiant.

A/N: I was in the mood for a good, old fashioned Merlin-abused-by-noble/knight story:D

Responsibility

It was with much annoyance that Arthur was starting to realize that he had a lot to learn about employing a personal manservant. The epiphany was an utterly ridiculous one as far as Arthur was concerned. There shouldn't have been anything to learn – just look regal, look stern, make an order, wait for the order to be promptly fulfilled and anything else the steward or head maid or head cook could handle. There had been the servants who brought his food, the servants who appeared and disappeared almost mysteriously to keep his chambers clean and his fire stoked, the servant who dropped by every morning to ensure he was dressed, and whoever happened to stop by the rest of the day per Arthur's orders whenever he needed anything else.

There had never been a reason to regard a servant as other than the means by which Arthur met his own personal wants and needs.

Until Uther decided that bestowing the position of manservant to the prince was a reasonable reward for saving Arthur's life. Arthur loved his father, he did, but there were times he wondered if Uther wasn't starting to get a little touched in the head with age, because who in their right mind would assign such a complete idiot to oversee the care and feeding of the future king of Camelot?

But idiocy Arthur could handle – that was what the stocks were for, after all, and watching Merlin get pummeled with rotten vegetables _was_ rather entertaining. Still, Arthur missed the days of having someone ready and waiting to help him dress, fetch his dinner _before_ it grew cold, and _not_ take a bloody hour to get him into his armor. And if that wasn't enough, it was up to Arthur to make sure the buffoon actually got paid for his pathetic services. Honestly, if the boy wasn't so blasted entertaining (he did make such an excellent target when Arthur was in the mood to throw things) he would have sacked him the moment Uther had hired him.

It didn't stop there, though. Oh, no. Because while Merlin might have been assigned to Arthur he was still subject to the whims of the king. And that meant, on occasion, Arthur having to wait even longer for Merlin's services while Merlin simultaneously served some other knight or lord currently without their lackey.

It made Arthur feel rather bitter toward Lord Gladstone, whose son – a year or two older than Arthur – had currently lost his own manservant to old age. And Uther, being the generous host, had assigned young Fergus Gladstone Merlin for the duration of their stay.

"Don't be cheeky," Arthur had warned Merlin. "Don't talk back, don't be late, and for goodness sake, don't be an idiot."

It wasn't because Arthur was worried about Merlin. Not one bit. Actually he was more concerned with having to deal with Merlin's impertinence, a simple enough task most of the time but one Arthur wasn't in the mood to put up with. Fergus might have been older but the man was a spoiled brat and could be very ridiculous in his demands, especially when it came to retribution. He had once attempted to challenge Arthur to a duel when Arthur was three, because Arthur's hand had been covered in berry juice and he had tugged on Fergus' silk sleeve. Uther did love reminding Arthur of that incident, still thinking it hilarious even to this day.

Arthur wanted as little to do with Fergus as possible. Be that as it may, he still expected Fergus to hound him with complaint after complaint about Merlin.

What Arthur got was Merlin making sporadic appearances full of apologies because he was serving Lord Fergus... and not much else. No complaints about Fergus, no back-talk to Arthur, nothing. Those times when Merlin was able to serve Arthur he did so quickly, quietly, no doubt in a hurry to meet the needs of two masters.

This new found obedience bothered Arthur all the same. He wasn't sure why, and took to studying Merlin closely but surreptitiously whenever Merlin managed to show up. But other than being quiet and subservient, there wasn't much in the way of difference. Merlin's ability to clean Arthur's room was still shabby, and if anything he was even more sloppy in dressing Arthur in his armor.

It took three days for Arthur to finally spot it – the look on Merlin's face each time he arrived. It was tight, far too neutral. But as the days passed, it became tighter, more... confused was the word that popped into Arthur's mind. Confused, uncertain, like Merlin was thinking too hard, like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words or wasn't sure if he was even allowed to speak.

Day five of Merlin's duel duties, and Arthur could have sworn the boy was becoming skittish. Merlin was serving him dinner, since he had the time. Arthur had set his cup down a little too hard, that was all, nothing more. His father had been rather displeased by Arthur's swordsmanship during practice and had decided to say something about it, out loud, in front of everyone, and it had put Arthur in a foul mood. So he took it out on his goblet with a good slam to the table.

Merlin leaped a good inch in the air, dropping the chain mail he'd been polishing. The mail landed on the floor in a rattle of links, Merlin already bending down to retrieve it.

Arthur rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, readying a witty retort on idiot servants and their buttery fingers. The words stuck in his throat when he noticed how Merlin's hands were trembling.

"Merlin," Arthur said.

"Yes, sire?" Merlin said, and respectfully of all things. "Sorry, sire. A bit clumsy today." He retrieved the chain mail, sat down and resumed polishing with a vigor as if his life depended on it.

Polite, apologetic, dutiful. Arthur frowned. "Merlin, is something wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong, sire?"

"You just called me sire. Twice."

Merlin shrugged, and looked up long enough to flash Arthur a cheery smile. "I often call you sire."

"Not twice, not unless you're being sarcastic." Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Are you being sarcastic with me, Merlin?"

Merlin's smile struggled to stay in place as his throat spasmed in a nervous swallow. "Of course not, s- er, um... Arthur. I'm just... trying to be more respectful, that's all."

"Mm-hmm," Arthur said. "Merlin?"

"Yes, sire?"

"Tell me what's wrong, that's an order."

Merlin's hand, still vibrating with slight tremors, paused in its polishing. "Nothing's wrong, s- Arthur. I thought you would like me showing more respect."

"And I thought pigs would fly before that would ever happen. So I order you to tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong!" Merlin snapped, and immediately tensed. "I mean... I'm just a bit stressed is all." He forced his weak smile back into place. "It's not easy serving two masters. I think I just forgot which master I was serving, that's all. But I can be less respectful if you want?"

For being such an idiot, Merlin was rather adept at deflection. Arthur sighed. "Actually I would rather you clear up my dishes."

"Of course, sire," Merlin said, and Arthur rolled his eyes again when Merlin hopped-to, gathering the dirty plates and cup as though he actually enjoyed such menial labor.

Then came day seven, the day Merlin hardly spoke at all save for a few mumbled yes sires and right away sires. There was something almost frantic in the way he did his chores, and as much as Arthur wanted to chalk it up to Merlin hurrying things along to have time to attend to Fergus, Arthur's gut instinct told him otherwise.

Something was wrong, something that was like a bad taste in Arthur's mouth he couldn't wash away. Day eight, Arthur dropped his fork, on purpose, just to see what Merlin would do. Merlin, folding Arthur's clothes, immediately stopped what he was doing and scrambled so fast, seemingly half panicked, that he tripped over his feet landing in a sprawl on the floor. Merlin was practically synonymous with tripping, and in fact Arthur couldn't call it a proper day until Merlin had landed on his face for one reason or another. But whether it was a stumble or a full drop, Merlin always came out of his tumbles unscathed.

Except today, when Merlin cried out in pain. But he brushed that pain aside, scrambling to his feet and grabbing the fork like a knight snatching up an infant inches from the jaws of a wolf. And as he set the fork triumphantly on the table with one hand, the other hand was occupied pressing against his ribs.

Something was very, very wrong, and if Merlin wasn't going to talk then Arthur would find someone who would.

Unfortunately, princely duties decided to occupy most of Arthur's day – training, more training, a council meeting, more training, lunch with his father, more training, and another council meeting. Between the exhaustion of so much training warring with the mind-dulling monotony of council meetings, Arthur nearly forgot that there was another issue in need of his attention; not until he entered his chambers to see another servant who was very much _not_ Merlin preparing his bath.

Right, Merlin was usually playing servant to Fergus around this time. Fine, then. It was Fergus Arthur had planned on speaking with, anyway. Fergus, then Gaius, maybe Gwen – someone had to know something about what was going on with Merlin.

Arthur arrived at Fergus' chambers to find the man sitting rather awkwardly on one of the wooden luggage chests. Fergus' face was nearly as red as his long hair, but then Arthur entered, Fergus snapped his head up looking more than ready to tell the intruder off, and all color trained from his skin. He quickly adjusted himself attempting to look comfortable, as though sitting on luggage chests was common practice in his realm.

"Arthur! What a pleasant surprise. Done with training, I see. Was it enjoyable?"

Arthur frowned. If Merlin being respectful was odd, Fergus being friendly was one of the signs of the Apocalypse. Fergus didn't do friendly. His brand of _friendly_ was a curt nod and a sour "Arthur" said as though spitting out something foul.

"It was... fine," Arthur said carefully. "Thank you. Um... listen, is Merlin here? I need to ask you something about him..."

Something within the room thumped.

"What was that?" Arthur said, glancing around for the source.

"Nothing. You were saying something about your manservant? Dreadful fellow, I'm afraid," Fergus said quickly. "Doesn't even know how to make a bed properly."

Another thump, louder than the last.

"There it is again," Arthur said. He entered the room fully, attempting to locate the sound.

"Probably rats. I've asked that manservant of yours to be rid of them – which he's rubbish at as well. Honestly, I don't know how you put up with him. But I haven't seen him, if that's what you're wondering."

"No," Arthur said absently, more intent on the mysterious sound than Fergus' rambling. "I was going to ask if you thought he's been acting odd."

"Of course he acts odd. He's an odd fellow," Fergus said, and barked a rather manic laugh at his (pathetic) wit.

There came another thump, followed by another, weaker than the last.

And then, "Arthur?" It was muffled, so timid and unsure that it was nearly inaudible.

Arthur stiffened. He turned to Fergus, his eyes flitting between him and the trunk. Arthur said, slow, low and terse, "What. The i_hell_/i. Was that?"

Fergus shrugged. "I didn't hear anything." Someone coughed weakly, the sound muffled. Fergus coughed in a poor attempt to cover it up.

"Move," Arthur said.

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"I said move!" Arthur snarled. He didn't wait for Fergus to reply, marching up to him then grabbing him by the back of his velvet coat and hauling him from the trunk. Arthur ripped open the latches, flung back the lid, and felt the blood drain from his face.

Merlin was curled up inside, balled impossibly tight so that his knees were tucked under his jaw. His skin was blotched with red and shiny with sweat, and his breathing fast, shallow and desperate. But what alarmed Arthur the most was Merlin's half-lidded eyes that were glassy and vacant.

"Merlin!" Arthur yelped.

Merlin coughed weakly. "A-Arthur?"

Arthur pulled Merlin from the chest by the arms. The moment he had Merlin's upper-half upright, Merlin sucked in a massive lungful of air. Fergus stood by, gibbering on and on about how it had just been a joke, that he was just teaching Merlin a lesson, that he hadn't meant anything by it. Arthur ignored him except to grace Fergus with the most heated, scathing, murderous look he could muster. Merlin was near-limp, and lifting him from the stuffy confines of the trunk was not unlike lifting a giant rag doll. Even freed from the trunk Merlin continued to pant as though the oxygen in the room wasn't sufficient.

Arthur didn't think about it when he leaned Merlin against him and supported him as they hurried from the room, taking him to Gaius – a task his father would have left to a guard or another servant. But all Arthur was aware of was Merlin's ragged breathing, his shaking, and getting him to the physician.

How long had Merlin been in that box? In the dark. The air running low. Curled up so tight his ribs wouldn't have been able expand to let his lungs take a sufficient breath. And Fergus sitting on the lid, laughing at him.

Arthur startled in surprise when he found himself in front of Gaius' door. Arthur burst inside, yanking Gaius' attention from whatever he had been doing, Arthur wasn't aware enough to know what let alone care. Arthur deposited Merlin on the cot then adjust his arms and legs more comfortably. Stretched out, Merlins' breathing began to slow, the redness fading away leaving only pale, clammy skin.

"What happened?" Gaius demanded as he began checking his ward over.

"Fergus," Arthur spat. "That... _bastard_ had Merlin locked in one of his trunks."

Gaius glanced up at Arthur in alarm, then narrowed his focus to Merlin. "That explains the breathing." He touched Merlin's face with both the back and front of his hand. "He's warm, sweaty. How long did he have him trapped?"

"I – I don't know," Arthur said, ripping his fingers through his hair. Merlin's eyes were no longer open, but his breathing had finally begun to calm. Gaius poured a cup of water from a pitcher then roused Merlin long enough to get him to drink. After that, Gaius lifted Merlin's shirt, and Arthur thought he was going to be sick. Merlin's body was covered in bruises.

"Nothing is broken, thank goodness," Gaius said after feeling along the bones of Merlin's chest. "And his breathing is getting better. You got to him just in time, Arthur. Any longer and he might have died." His voice cracked a little there at the end.

Arthur stared down at Merlin, watching him breathe. He noticed a small patch of skin on Merlin's chest that seemed to be pulsing. It was right where his heart would be, and it was pulsing fast.

Fergus had stuffed him into a trunk, into the dark, where the air would have run out and Merlin's chest unable to expand to let him breathe.

Arthur remembered hearing Merlin's voice, calling his name, small and timid as though begging.

"Excuse me, Gaius," Arthur said politely. He left the chamber, walked quickly but regally back to Fergus' room, and punched him in the face.

He got in trouble for it, as he knew he would – a day spent in the dungeon – but he made sure to tell the guard escorting him to relay to Gaius that Merlin was to have the next two days off. Fergus and his father would be gone by then.

Arthur was released the next day. The day after that, he was at his table, picking at his breakfast as he observed Merlin tidying up the room. The tension had gone out of Merlin's shoulders, and he no longer jumped. He did flinch whenever Arthur's fork happened to tap a little too loud against his place, though.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Arthur asked.

Merlin whirled around, broom in one hand and a discarded glove in the other. "Say what?"

"About what Fergus was doing to you. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Oh," Merlin said. His face pinched with confusion. "I... didn't know I could."

Arthur's eyes rounded over. "You didn't know you could? Are you serious?"

"Well... Lord Fergus is a noble and... it's usually frowned on for a servant to speak ill of a noble, at least to the king. I mean, there was that whole Valiant mess. That didn't exactly go well for me when I did complain if you remember-"

"Yes, but if you recall only because you didn't have immediate proof for your accusations. You did have proof with Fergus. It was written rather plainly all over your body."

A mild flush spread through Merlin's cheeks. He quickly began busying himself with sweeping, his eyes on the floor.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't know I could."

"Well, you can to me," Arthur said. "You may be my servant but as your master it's just as much my job to look after you."

And it hit Arthur then. It _was_ his job to look after Merlin. Well, not literally his job, of course. His responsibility. Merlin wasn't just some random servant sent along to complete some random task for the day. He was Arthur's servant, under Arthur's care.

Under his protection.

Merlin could have died had Arthur not been paying close enough attention.

It was unsettling, sickening, even, the thought of waking one morning to a servant who wasn't Merlin, no more cheeky remarks, no more having someone to laugh at when they tripped over nothing, no one for Arthur to practice his witty comebacks on.

But the thought of Merlin at the mercy of Fergus, being beaten, being stuffed into that box to nearly suffocate, was even more sickening. Arthur was not just responsible for a servant, he was responsible for another human being.

"I mean it," Arthur said, prompting Merlin to stop fussing and look at him. "You may be a pain in the ass but not even you deserved such treatment. If anyone hurts you like that again, you need to tell me right away. You nearly died, Merlin. No one has a right to treat you that way."

"Oh," Merlin said as though the concept were a novel one. "Oh – okay." Then he brightened. "Does that mean you'll stop throwing things at me?"

Arthur scoffed. "How does me telling you to tell me when someone is abusing you mean that I don't have to throw anything at you? Besides, you know I miss on purpose."

"Really?" Merlin said dryly.

Arthur shrugged, non-repentant. "I can't be blamed if you don't duck fast enough?"

"Fine. If you get to keep throwing things, I get to keep dragging you out of bed and dumping you on the cold floor."

"No," Arthur said.

"It's only fair."

Arthur threw his fork. Merlin easily ducked it, and said with a grin, "So who do I complain to about you?"

"Oh, shut up."

The End

A/N of Dooooooom: Since everyone else has tossed in their two cents on the finale, I thought I would as well. So, obviously, spoiler warnings ahead. Read at your own peril!

I both loved and hated the final episodes. Loved because OMG Reveal! BAMF Merlin! Balinor coming back to give his son a pep talk! (I've always loved Balinor. He was such a kind, loving father even having barely known Merlin.) Arthur saying thank you! The bromance! The feels! The acting! Oh, the superb acting! To not give Colin and James another acting gig right away would be blasphemy!

But hated it because it nearly made me cry, and I'm not fond of things that make me cry. But... that's Arthurian legend for you. You can make it cute all you want, it's still a sad tale. I will admit, however, that I was a little worried that the sad ending would ruin the rest of the show for me, knowing how things were going to end up and all. It didn't, which I'm rather surprised and befuddled by. But, then again, season five was _just so different_ from the rest of the series that it was practically like watching another show. I could so easily cut the show off at season four and be content, if only season five hadn't had all that brilliant Merlin whump.

The show as a whole wasn't perfect, I get that, but I had never really cared because it's just so much fun. And though I do wish the writers had tried to figure out a happier ending, neither do I fault them for going in a sad direction. Again, it's Arthurian legend, it's sad and messy and I had already figured that things weren't going to end pretty. I keep hearing all these rumors about spin-offs, movies, reboots and hope that none of them are true (although a movie 'might' be interesting, I don't know), because imperfect as the show was, as I said, it was still a lot of fun and doesn't need anything more done to it IMO - most especially a reboot. It just wouldn't work without the cast.

And that's my two-cents.


	8. Once and Future Everyone

Rating: K

Characters: Everyone!

Summary: Arthur meets television, there's a cat named Gwaine, Morgana actually does have fashion sense, and Merlin is never teaching anyone to drive ever again. Both a return and reincarnation fic. Humor, friendship and happiness abounds.

A/N: I have no idea if there are Wal-Marts in England (probably not?), but since I'm rather fond of the title and one particular scene - plus because Wal-Mart partially played a part in the inspiration for this fic (along with PetCo) - let's just pretend for the sake of this story that there is ;)

Once and Future Everyone

or

Everything I Need To Know About the Modern Age I Learned from Wal-Mart

~oOo~

When Arthur returned, he stepped out of the lake, resplendent in red and gold, the water giving way to him so that he stepped onto the shore perfectly dry. And Merlin, overcome by centuries of hopes and dreams and loneliness, as well as no longer being an old man with aching bones, wept.

When Arthur attempted to chase down several passing cars to run them through with his sword, Merlin wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and not wake for at least a week.

~oOo~

"These are odd children's toys," Arthur said as he studied the shelves crammed with colorful ropes tied into knots and rubber squeaky things shaped like odd animals. "And why are they all the way over here when the toys are on the other side of the shop?"

"They're pet toys," Merlin said absently, engrossed in the toys for reasons, unlike Arthur, that had nothing to do with confusion.

Arthur graced him with one of those 'I always knew you were daft, this just proves it' looks – yet another expression Merlin had missed, even if it was also the one he'd despised the most.

"Toys. For animals," Arthur said slowly. "You mean they actually put time and resources into making playthings for hunting hounds and barn cats? Who in their right mind would indulge an animal with such pointless trink-" He looked at Merlin, at the packages of catnip bags, plastic balls with tinkly bells inside and bright blue feathers on a shiny plastic stick clutched in his hands, then back at Merlin. "Right. Forgot who I was talking to."

Merlin threw a squeaky ball at him.

~oOo~

Television and Arthur had started off on the wrong foot, which Merlin had been expecting, and he was quite pleased that Arthur's immediate reaction wasn't to impale the thing with the nearest sharp object. But it was the longest introduction Merlin had ever had to make, because Arthur was, for the most part, unable to wrap his head around it i_not_/i being a bloody magic box with people trapped inside. It involved a rather long and step-by-step education into the world of moving images ("How is that not sorcery?") cameras ("That is most definitely sorcery") and film ("Damn it, Merlin, you're capturing images of people and sticking them into boxes! How is that not i_evil_/i sorcery!") followed by the invention of electricity ("Well... I suppose that makes sense. Still seems like sorcery to me.")

What Merlin hadn't been expecting and should have been dreading was A: Arthur becoming rather enamored with television (although it shouldn't have been a surprise, really. Even as an adult and as king, he'd loved puppet theaters, though he would go back into the lake before admitting it) and B: coming across the various interpretations of Arthurian legend.

"How the hell did they come to the conclusion that I slept with Morgana and fathered Mordred! That's... that's... I think I'm going to be sick."

"Well, Lord Geoffery was going a bit demented when he wrote your annals. And re-translations did start going a bit vague over time."

"And where were you while these re-translations went 'vague?'"

Merlin shrugged. "They never believed me when I told them who I was. Thought I was supposed to be trapped in a cave or tree or some rubbish like that."

Arthur grunted irritably. He stared back at the TV, frowning. "When the hell did I ever fight a man-eating rabbit?"*

~oOo~

"This Mr. Wal-mart has no sense of organization what so ever. They have children's shirts among the clothes for adults."

"It's not Mr. Wal-Mart, it's just Wal-Mart. And this is the teen section. Those are shirts for teenage girls."

Arthur balked. "How in the world are they expected to fit into such minuscule garments?"

Merlin sighed wearily, making a mental note not to bring Arthur to the store during bathing-suit season.

~oOo~

Merlin wasn't sure who was having the most fun with the cat toys – Little Gwaine the tabby or Arthur.

~oOo~

Merlin wondered if, or more like when, waiting over the centuries for Arthur to return had resulted in him losing his wits.

Because he was teaching Arthur to _drive_. _Arthur_, who was about as patient when it came to learning anything new, and as about receptive to Merlin's instructions, as a five year old on the verge of a temper tantrum. Merlin had prepared for it, though, knowing it would be an eventuality – Arthur may have needed Merlin's help to saddle a horse but there was a reason Arthur hadn't been fond of coaches. He never did like leaving the reins in someone else's hand.

Arthur seemed to grasp the concept well enough, but then there was the road rage...

"Move, you obnoxious little blighter! Move!"

"Arthur, just go around."

"I'm not going around, he just needs to move faster."

"He's a turtle, he's not going to move faster. Just go around."

Arthur yanked hard on the wheel, nearly tipping the golf cart over.

"Sure you don't want me driving you places? I don't mind," Merlin said, knuckles white as he gripped his seat for dear life.

"No," Arthur replied tersely. He honked the cart's squeaky horn at a rabbit. "Move!"

~oOo~

They met him at a pub, which was very fitting, all things considered. Arthur was celebrating his newly acquired ability to drive, Merlin was lamenting it (the road rage was still a bit of an issue, as was convincing Arthur not to bring a sword where ever he went). A group of drunkards, wishing to prove their manliness and idiocy at the same time, had chosen them as the target.

It was just like old times, and even Merlin found himself laughing as they fled from the pub, bloody, bruised and triumphant.

"Hadn't had that much fun in some time," said the man with the painfully familiar face that made Merlin's chest ache with joy. "You lads can call me Dwaine. I've got a feeling I'm going to like you two."

~oOo~

"Merlin," Arthur asked. "What do you do for a living? How do you have all this money when I never see you trot off to some job?"

Merlin shrugged like it was no big deal, because it wasn't, even though Arthur was looking at him warily. "You find ways."

"You haven't... enchanted people to pay you or anything, have you?" Arthur narrowed his eyes.

Merlin spluttered. "What? No! Of course not! Well, okay, yes, there may have been times I cheated a little when gambling but only because I was desperate. Mostly, though... well, you'd be surprised how much those old practice swords of yours go for these days."

Arthur stiffened, Merlin's old couch squeaking in protest. "You sold my swords!"

"Well it wasn't like you were using them!"

~oOo~

They took walks through the woods, sometimes, whenever Arthur needed to get away from the onslaught of so much moderness and Merlin needed to get away from explaining every bit of technology to Arthur. It was mostly Merlin who did the talking, mostly about those parts of his life unknown to Arthur during Camelot, then his life after Camelot – of aiding Arthur when he was alive, then Camelot after Arthur had died, of wandering the world, aging only to become young again then old again, wars fought, wars avoided, the decline of magic as technology grew to encompass the world, and Merlin quite certain he was the only magical being left in existence other than Aithusa.

"Sounds..." Arthur said. He scrunched his brow, searching for the right words. He said, because it seemed the only word that would come to mind. "Lonely."

"It was," Merlin said. Then he looked at Arthur, alive and well and fully aware of what Merlin was and not caring the slightest, and smiled. "But it was worth it."

~oOo~

There was so much Merlin had anticipated for Arthur's return. He had anticipated that Arthur would ask about Gwen and what had become of her (and that he would be hesitant about it, knowing it would cause himself pain) and Merlin would tell him everything (also as hesitantly, knowing the pain it would cause Arthur). Gwen had made a wonderful queen. She had lifted the ban on magic, ushering in the golden age as promised. She had missed Arthur fiercely.

She had had a son, Arthur's son.

There was so much Merlin had anticipated, while hoping it never came to pass. But destiny had never been cooperative or kind. Merlin was not surprised to find Arthur on the couch, a beer in hand, tears staining his face. He looked up at Merlin, and his smile was weak.

"I had a son."

Merlin sat down beside him, then held him as Arthur sobbed into his shoulder.

~oOo~

When Gwen returned, she didn't step from a lake, but from a halo of pure white light that woke both Arthur and Merlin with its brightness. They stumbled from their rooms and out the door, Arthur in only pajama pants, Merlin in a thin T-shirt and old sweats. It was cold, the grass like ice under their feet.

But they didn't care when Gwen stepped from the light, beautiful as the day she'd been crowned. Merlin didn't understand it at first, only able to suppose that a once and future king needed his once and future queen. There was weeping within laughter within whoops of joy as Arthur scooped up his wife and spun her around. She giggled, they kissed, then went inside.

Gwen about fainted when Merlin flipped on the lights. As Gwen explored the kitchen, Merlin turned to Arthur and poked his chest.

"_You're_ teaching her to drive."

~oOo~

"Good heavens, why are these underthings on such display, and why are they so... colorful?" Gwen asked.

Merlin refrained from slapping his forehead. He'd forgotten they were meant to avoid the store during bathing suit season.

~oOo~

His name was Lance, who owned the little jazz club that Dwaine took them all to for a bit of fun. His name was Percy, and he was big and played saxophone. Coming to the rescue when Merlin's old klunker refused to start wasn't exactly exciting as a barroom brawl, but it was Percy and Lance and it didn't matter. Merlin also got free tickets to the club next weekend.

~oOo~

"Oh, aren't you just precious, now?" Gwen said as she held up Little Gwaine in his new little sweater of Pendragon Red with the Pendragon crest on the back. Once a seamstress, always a seamstress, it seemed. Little Gwaine took it all as only a cat named after a scoundrel knight could, by basking in Gwen's attention then strutting about the place when he was set down.

She later made him some light chain mail and a tiny sword.

~oOo~

Leo and Eli were Tae Kwan Do instructors, Gwen a girl in need of something new and fascinating to try out. She fixed their uniforms, they taught her how to flip someone as big as Percy over her shoulder.

~oOo~

Morgana's return was terrifying and confusing. No one had expected it and everyone was quite sure it was the reason for Arthur's return. She stepped out of the light much like Gwen, but was as glowering and unhappy as ever, mostly because she was immediately apologizing the moment the three of them stepped from the door – armed to the teeth with a sword, a kitchen knife and some knitting needles. The apologies were mostly of the forced and recalcitrant kind common among sulking teenagers, full of eye-rolling and huffing and sorry for trying to kill you and take over the kingdom.

"The Triple Goddess had a very, very long chat with me," Morgana said broodingly. "She made me help prepare Arthur for his return. I'm supposed to..." she sighed heavily. "Help him some more or something. Now can we go in, it's freezing."

Gwen made tea. There was talking, some biscuits, more apologies ("I'm sorry I put a snake in your neck." "I'm sorry for poisoning you." "That's fine, my fault for agreeing to Morgause's plan. Sorry for taking your favorite practice shield and using it as a sled that one winter." "That was you!")

Gwen took her shopping the next day, and Merlin more than gladly let her.

"Poor thing is going to be as bewildered as I was with all these style choices," Gwen had said laughingly.

They returned five hours later with new hair styles, bags and bags of shopping, and dressed in the manner of those models in the high-fashion magazines.

Gwen's only contribution had been to explain the method of payment and point out the best place to go for lunch.

~oOo~

Gaius wasn't a doctor any more, but he used to be. As Merlin had been there to cushion his landing when Gaius had fallen from the balcony in his chambers, Gaius was there to pop Merlin's arm into his socket when he tripped over his own feet and fell on his shoulder.

~oOo~

"It's been seven months, Merlin. What do you think it is?" Arthur asked.

They were sitting in lawn chairs outside the cottage, facing the lake, glasses of Guiness in their hands and the air smelling pleasantly of hamburgers cooking on the grill Dwaine had brought over. Percy, Lance and Eli were playing with the little white shizu Morgana had bought (because it had reminded her of Aithusa, who Merlin said was still alive and doing quite well, living it up in the Alps, keeping the yetis from attacking skiers. They planned to go visit her in the winter). Leo was showing Morgana how to do a round-house kick, and Gaius was sitting in another chair under a tree, attempting to pet Little Gwaine around his chainmail. Gwen was sitting next to him, flipping through a maternity magazine. It was going to be a boy, the ultra sound had shown them, and Merlin had the very strong and happy feeling that Arthur was going to finally meet his son.

"What do I think what is?" Merlin asked.

"Albion's greatest need. Because so far Albion seems to be doing just fine without me."

Merlin shrugged. "Maybe it doesn't need you, yet. Maybe this is a vacation."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "That would be nice."

"Well, whatever it is, we'll face it together," Merlin said, comfortable, content, and the happiest he remembered being in so very long. "And it won't involve having to teach anyone else to drive."

"Here, here," Arthur said, they clinked their glasses together.

"Until your son's old enough to get his permit," Merlin said.

"I'm leaving that to Gwen," Arthur said.

They clinked their glasses again.

The End

*Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (The king was right, Camelot is a silly place.)


	9. Mother Bear

Rating: K+

Characters: Hunith, Merlin Arthur

Warnings: Mentions of off-screen violence but nothing explicit. Angst, lots of angst.

Summary: Even a king knows better than to trifle with the power of a mother's love. Reveal fic. Hurt Merlin, BAMF and protective Hunith.

Mother Bear

Hunith found him just outside the cottage. She had heard a noise, had nearly tripped over him on her way to investigate, and had nearly fallen dead on the spot when she rolled him over to see him bloodied, bruised and unmoving.

But being mother to a boy with magic, while a torment to her emotions, did have its advantages. She knew how to function through shock and dread, and while her mind reeled and stumbled over what she had found, her body acted. She lifted her limp boy, her dear sweet Merlin, as best she could and half-carried, half-dragged him into the cottage (and it was so easy when it shouldn't have been, when his height should have made him like a boulder. But he was so light, so abysmally thin...) and once inside she struggled to get his gangly limbs onto the bed without hurting him.

He was alive, his chest moving and his heart beating, and for the moment all that mattered was keeping him that way. But the more she saw, the more her mind wanted to process it, to understand how someone as sweet and caring as Merlin could have ended up left to crawl his way home, broken and alone. She wrestled him from his shirt, wondering where his jacket was, his neckerchief. She nearly lost the contents of her stomach when she studied the injuries on his body, the bruises, the cut from his chest to near the base of his ribs, another crossing it from collarbone to breastbone and, lords, he was so thin. Why was he so thin? His skin was white, he was so pale, and his breaths came and went with a wheeze.

Hunith couldn't help processing, and what she processed was a kingdom in ruins and dear friends dead. Because had it been anything else, Merlin would be fine because Arthur or one of the knights would have been with him. But all that mattered was Merlin. There would be time to grieve later.

The rest of the night was spent tending to Merlin. She washed his wounds, ground what herbs she still had in her house into poultices and applied them, then wrapped Merlin's chest in shredded linens. He didn't wake, not once, not even when Hunith dribbled water into his mouth and massaged his throat to get him to drink. Had it not been for the wheezing it would have been easy to pass him off as dead, and when Merlin was as cared for as Hunith could manage and the sun was just about to break through the horizon, Hunith allowed her body to drop her to her knees. She rested her arms on the bed, her head on her arms, and wept herself to sleep.

She woke to a feathery touch on her head, and sobbed at the sight of Merlin's eyes like blue slivers through his eyelids. She was so happy to see him awake, alive, so eager to make sure he stayed that way as she gathered what she needed to make porridge, that she didn't hear him until she was stirring the pot.

"Hm? Yes, Merlin, what is it?"

"He knows."

Hunith froze. She turned to her son. His eyes were wide and shining, his breaths fast but labored, and he was shaking.

"He knows, he knows. I'm sorry, mother, he knows. I didn't... I had to... I didn't have a choice, he was going to die and... mother..."

Hunith hurried over to him. She took his clammy, shaking hand in hers and with the other hand smoothed back the sweat-soaked hair from his pale brow.

"Shh, it's all right, Merlin. It's all right. If you had to-"

"He told me to go. Said he'd kill me. He was so angry."

Hunith's grip on her son's hand tightened, the tightness reaching into her chest, her stomach, her very bones. She said through gritted teeth, "Did he do this to you?"

Merlin's head rocked back and forth. "It was during a battle," he began, but had to stop in order to swallow. He began coughing harshly, wetly. Hunith picked up the cup of water from where she had set it the other night on the floor and helped Merlin take a few sips.

"You don't have to tell me, Merlin. You need to rest," she said.

But rest never came easy with an overburdened heart in desperate need of relief. Merlin forced himself to continue. "It was Lot's men. They followed me, they wouldn't stop. I was – I was so tired."

Hunith, still brushing back her boy's hair, nodded in understanding. "Your magic is difficult for you when you're exhausted and hurt."

"There were so many. I – I think I lost them, or they stopped. I don't know..."

Hunith shook her head. "No one else has come."

Merlin nodded, and for a moment seemed to relax. Then his face pinched and scrunched with so much pain and sorrow it devastated Hunith to see it. Merlin was supposed to be happy and carefree, not _this_.

"He was so angry," Merlin said in a voice so small Hunith nearly missed it.

"Hush," Hunith soothed. "It's all right, Merlin. You're safe now. Try to get some rest."

Merlin's eyes slid immediately closed, and Hunith doubted it was because he was merely following her instructions. That he had collapsed when he had been so close to reaching the house, so tired that he couldn't use his magic properly, and so thin, it was easy enough to surmise that he hadn't been running for hours.

He'd been running for days, no doubt in an attempt to lose the men that were chasing him. Running and running with no food, no water and only the clothes on his back. All because he'd had to give up his secret to save Arthur's life.

Hunith placed her hand on her son's chest, closed her eyes, and immersed herself in the beating of his heart. The steady if tired tap against her palm was all that mattered. Her son's breathing, his continued existence, that's what she needed to focus on. She pushed against the anger rising like a geyser from her gut until she felt nothing at all. As long as the heart beneath her palm still pulsed, then nothing else mattered.

But while focusing on what mattered was doable, it certainly wasn't easy. Sickness had made itself at home in Merlin's lungs, and Hunith had no choice but to face the demons tormenting Merlin as he struggled through the fever. The worst was when he would wake up screaming, "Please Arthur, please!" and Hunith would hold him and rock him as he curled into a ball and sobbed. And she would cry, too, when the begging wouldn't stop, and she would run her hand up and down his back and feel his ribs and the knots of his spine as if no skin covered them. She would cry harder when she would look over at him, thinking he was asleep only to see his eyes wide open in an expression of wild panic but his body still as the dead, shriveled and skeletal as if not long for this world.

In those moments, as she cried, she would hate Arthur Pendragon, but trying not to because it wouldn't be what Merlin wanted.

And of course things had to get worse just as they were getting better, because of course Arthur Pendragon was the kind of man who couldn't let matters go.

Merlin had survived the fever but the effort had left him so utterly exhausted one would think him still sick. He was no longer screaming, thank goodness, but he was whimpering, writhing, and would still curl up shaking. It made Hunith ill to see it, reminding her of those days when food had been scarce, and Merlin a half-starved child rolled into a skeletal ball moaning from the pain in his empty stomach. When Merlin was awake – if his drowsy state could be called awake - he was jumpy, flinching at any sudden noise and cringing if Hunith moved too quickly.

And of course, _of course_ whatever gods were tormenting Merlin were not done with him yet.

Hunith was changing his bandages, being both quick and efficient about it. Merlin was too weak to be upright even when leaning against the wall, and he started sliding back toward the pillow more than once.

A rapid pounding on the door caused him to gasp, stiffen, and stare at the door like a griffin was waiting on the other side to kill them.

"It's all right, Merlin, it's all right," Hunith said quickly. She slowly eased him back onto the pillow so he wouldn't fall, giving him a small, reassuring smile. "Probably old lady Glennis again. She does love a reason to chat."

Hunith opened the door.

Arthur Pendragon barreled his way inside. "Hunith, I apologize for this but I need to know-" He stopped and stared at the rickety bed and breathed, "Merlin."

What Hunith expected to happen next was for Merlin to scream his head off and try to run for his life. It didn't happen, thankfully, but what did happen was no less an evil. Merlin shrank back, shaking, his breathing becoming so rapid that Hunith knew that if didn't get it under control he would pass out...

No. In his weakened state it could kill him.

Hunith clenched her fists until the nails bit into her palms. "Out." She said, soft at first. "Get out." Louder. "Get out now!" A scream.

Arthur turned to her as though he had never seen anything like her, and it frightened him. "Hunith-" he tried.

Hunith shoved at his chest. "Get out now! So help me, Arthur, sovereign or no I will not restrain myself from harming you if you do not leave this room! Get out!"

Arthur complied, and quickly, flashing her a look of both regret and apology. He didn't look at Merlin.

Hunith rushed over to Merlin and grabbed both bony shoulders in her hands.

"Merlin, look at me. You need to breathe, like this." She inhaled slowly and exhaled just as slow. "In and out. It's all right, Merlin, he's gone. I told you you were safe and you are. No one is going to harm you. Now breathe, in, out, in... that's it."

Merlin complied by taking one slow, shaking breath after another until his lungs had finally calmed. But it had exhausted him to the point that no amount of dread could keep him awake. His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open.

"I'll be right back, Merlin," Hunith said. She brushed his hair back. "I'm just going to be right outside the door. I won't go far." She stood to go.

A weak grasp around her wrist stopped her. She turned and looked down at her pale son still fighting to stay awake.

"S'not worth it," he rasped. "If he... wants to take me... s'okay. S'not worth you... getting hurt..."

Hunith took his hand into hers and tucked it gently against his side. She smiled at him. "I somehow doubt he intends me harm. I'll be all right Merlin. I just have a few things to say to him is all."

Merlin, panicked even when tired, shook his head. "S'not worth it."

"Oh, it is, sweetheart. Very much so." She kissed his blessedly cool forehead, then marched out the door.

Arthur was standing five feet from the threshold, pacing. When Hunith came out, letting the door slam behind her, he stopped and regarded her both warily and contritely.

Hunith crossed her arms. "What happened?"

"Has Merlin not told you?" Arthur said, uncertain.

"He told me. He said he saved your life with magic and you ran him off."

Arthur looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "That... is the gist of it, yes."

"And that there were men chasing him."

Arthur looked up in alarm at that. "They did? I thought... with his magic..."

"He may be gifted but even Merlin has his limits. Most especially when tired and injured."

Arthur's alarm doubled. "Is he all right?"

"He's through the worst but he's weak, not to mention in no fit state to deal with angry kings who make promises of execution barging through doors and scaring the life out of him." Hunith dropped her arms to her sides. "He's harmless, sire. Lords, a butterfly would do you more harm than Merlin. He would die before he did anything to you. Has he been nothing but loyal to you? And yet you not only run him out but leave him to the mercy of dangerous men-"

"It..." Arthur cut in, looking ready to argue, then huffed in what looked to be sudden weariness. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yes!" Arthur said, lifting his hands.

Hunith narrowed her eyes at him, studied him. What she saw was frustration, grief, and nothing but sincerity. He meant what he said.

"So you're not here to drag him back merely to execute him," she stated.

Arthur actually paled at that. "No! Lords, no. Hunith... I know this may seem a paltry excuse, but remember where I come from. I was raised to mistrust magic, to hate it. By all rights according to our laws I should have run Merlin through and I thank the gods that I didn't." He chuffed. "I had at least that much sense."

Hunith remained statue-still and just as expressionless. There would be no reprieve for Arthur until she understood his intent with her son.

"Why are you here, then?" Hunith said.

"Not to harm him, I promise," Arthur said wisely. He shifted uncomfortably like a chastised child. "I... had some time to think on the matter."

Hunith nearly smiled. _No, you had time for Gaius to tell you some things that you were in dire need of hearing, _she thought.

"Now I don't know what to think anymore," Arthur said. He looked at Hunith. "I thought Merlin had been taken, you know. That someone who looked like Merlin had replaced him. It was the only explanation I had as to why my bumbling manservant sent a squadron of men flying into trees. Then he turned to me; I suppose he hadn't realized I'd seen what he had done. He smiled at me – that same, stupid smile of his when he wants me to think him an idiot. And I knew." He shook his head. "It i_was_/i Merlin."

Hunith remained quiet, wanting to hear more, to understand this man - this son of Uther Pendragon, whose very name made even the most hardened Druid shudder - attempting to make sense of what Uther would not have hesitated to destroy.

As angry as Hunith was with Arthur, that he had spared her son's life said that she owed him at least this much.

"His magic frightened me," Arthur went on. "But that he had it and I never knew..." he sighed heavily. "All I could think of after I saw what he did was the people who had betrayed me. Morgana, my uncle – people I had trusted without a second thought who would have stabbed me in the back given half the chance."

Arthur tossed up his hands. "I just... I don't understand. You're right, Merlin has been nothing but loyal to me. Even when I refused to listen to him he stood by me. But every time I think of that loyalty it makes me wonder why he never told me of his magic. I have shown nothing but mercy and justice even to those with magic and yet... he still feared me."

Hunith shook her head. "It is not about you, sire."

His eyes flashed in a moment of anger. "How is it not about me? How does his not trusting me have nothing to do with me?"

"You misunderstand," Hunith cut in quickly but gently. She almost wanted to laugh at the hurt on Arthur's face. Not out of spite, but because of what it made her remember.

"You recall his friend, Will?" she said.

"Yes," Arthur said.

"When Will and Merlin were children, Merlin had used magic to pluck an apple from a tree. Will saw him, and he was so angry with Merlin for not telling him. Don't you trust me – that's what Merlin said Will had said. It had broken Merlin's heart. So I took Will aside and told him what I am about to tell you."

"It is _not_ you, Arthur. It is not a matter of trust, it is a matter of survival. You need to understand that even in a kingdom where magic is not outlawed it can still be dangerous to have. Had anyone known of Merlin's ability word might have reached all the way to Cenred, or Cenred's father before him. They would have taken Merlin to train him and turn him into their pet sorcerer." Hunith shuddered. "And they would not have been kind about it. I taught Merlin to keep his magic secret the moment I found out he had it." She smiled wistfully. "Not that he always listened."

Arthur's lips twitched in a small smile of his own. "Why am I not surprised?"

Hunith shrugged. "He is magic, Arthur. He was born with it, he did not learn it."

Arthur nodded. "So I've been told."

"It is a part of him, and for him to not use it would be to deny himself. It saddened him, sometimes, to not use it. Sometimes it frightened him, made him wonder if he were some monster destined for terrible things. It is why I sent him to Giaus, in the hopes that Giaus would help teach and guide him in what I couldn't. I wanted him to find his purpose." Hunith cleared her throat that felt suddenly tight and congested. "So I sent him into a kingdom that could have killed him simply for being born. But it was all I could think to do."

Arthur regarded her sadly. "And his purpose was to protect me."

"Apparently, it was his destiny," Hunith said. Then she smiled again. "Oh, but he was so happy, sire. He found more than a purpose. He found joy and friendship, and even knowing where he was and what could happen to him did not change that. But what you must understand, Arthur, is that his secret is not a matter of trust. Keeping his secret was all he ever knew, and he was so happy where he was that he didn't want to do anything to ruin it. It... simply became easier for him to say nothing. But do not think for a moment it's because of anything you said or did. Merlin trusts you explicitly, but a life of caution and fear is a difficult habit to break."

Arthur shifted and placed his hands on his hips. He looked thoughtful. "There seems to be an interesting pattern, here," he said.

"Oh?" Hunith said carefully.

"Gaius told me how he found out about Merlin's magic, that Merlin had saved him when he fell. But when Gaius asked him about it, he tried to deny it. His friend Will found out by accident. I found out by accident. Has there been anyone he's actually told about his magic?"

"There have been some," Hunith said. "Merlin told me about them. But they were magic users as well, and very few."

"Ah," Arthur said. "There you have it, then."

"Have what?"

Arthur smiled. "I was right. Merlin really _is _complete rubbish at keeping secrets."

Hunith smiled impishly back. "He kept it from you for four years, Will for three. I would say that's quite impressive."

Arthur shrugged. "If you want to think so." The smile faded away, his expression turning uncertain, if hopeful. "May I... would it be possible for me to talk with him?"

Hunith sighed. "I can make no promises."

"I understand," Arthur said.

Hunith went inside. The moment she did, Merlin lifted his head on his shaking neck to stare at her with large, pleading eyes.

"Mother?"

"It's all right, Merlin," Hunith said, hurrying to him. She knelt by his side, placing her hand on his head and the other over his wrist. "Arthur and I had a talk. He's not angry with you any more. He's actually quite worried. And he wants to speak with you. But you don't have to if you don't want. King or not, he can learn to wait."

It coaxed a small smile from Merlin. He swallowed thickly, uneasily, but after a moment nodded.

Hunith went to the door, opened it, and ushered Arthur in with a tilt of her head. He was just about to step through the threshold when she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"You do anything to upset him, and we will have words," Hunith said.

Arthur gave her a single nod of understanding. He approached the bed slowly, and Hunith was happy to see the sadness on his face over Merlin's state. Only a man worried for a friend would be that much of an open book.

Hunith lingered by the door, giving the two boys their space while keeping close to shoo Arthur off should things get to be too much for Merlin. She didn't hear their quiet words, not all of them, but she did see Merlin's face as it phased from desperation to cautious fear, from cautious fear to hesitant hope.

Then he started to cry.

Hunith took a step forward, ready to intervene, but stopped when Arthur carefully gathered Merlin to his chest and held him. Merlin sobbed and quaked, and Arthur held on, rubbing his back and whispering reassurances as Hunith had done only moments ago. When Arthur eased Merlin back onto the bed, Merlin was smiling. Hunith caught words like idiot, prat, and "you wouldn't happen to know a spell that would turn Gwain'es hair pink? Because that would be hilarious."

Hunith's anger faded away like the images Merlin used to conjure in the fire to make his mother smile.

Arthur stayed with them a few days to help Hunith care for Merlin and to learn of all that Merlin had done for him. He made his return to Camelot on the fourth day, saying that he did have a kingdom to run and all. But Merlin he told to stay, and that when he was ready to return – if he wanted to return – to send word and Arthur would send Gwain to fetch him. And when he returned, he would be more than welcomed.

Merlin was still too thin in Hunith's opinion (despite her attempts to fatten him up) when he sent word. But he was the happiest she had ever seen him, and that's all that really mattered.

The End

A/N: I had wanted this story to be more on equal grounds concerning both Arthur's and Merlin's sides of the matter. But seeing how this was from Hunith's POV and she'd just been tending to her sick, injured and frightened son... yeah, well, I doubt Arthur trying to explain his side of the matter with more vigor would have gone over so well. Plus Arthur did have time to think on the matter and talk it out with Gaius *shrugs* Mostly this story was an excuse for some hurt Merlin and protective Hunith.

And, yes, I am addicted to getting Arthur and Merlin to hug. I am not ashamed to admit it. I adore brotherly love, and I find Merlin's and Arthur's relationship to be incredibly brotherly.


	10. Unlady Like

Rating: PG, gen

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Knights

Warning: Crossdressing against one's will and being considerably unhappy about it.

Summary: In which Arthur is wrong, Merlin is very much not a girl. Humor.

A/N: I'm not sure what possessed me to write this. Possibly the image of Merlin having to disguise himself as a girl without the help of magic and being completely horrible at pulling it off, and poor Leon being jealous about it. It was a very amusing image.

Unlady Like

Leon would never confess to it out loud - not in a million years on pain of death with the promise of torture beforehand – but he was starting suspect that he _might_ have been a little more successful at pretending to be a girl than Merlin. Which was incredibly unfair. Merlin was the one with the delicate features, with a face that came out so clean after a shave one would think the boy incapable of growing a beard at all. If anyone should have made a proper girl, it should have been Merlin.

The problem was everything below the neck. While Merlin may have had the face for being incognito as a female, he most definitely did not have the body, and that's what gave him away. As well as spared him his virtue, it seemed.

The ladies of the broth... er... rather bawdy tavern were very graceful creatures, if fiery when it came to their tempers. And Merlin... was not. Where they sacheted like ribbons in the wind, Merlin seemed to... galoomph was the only word to come to mind, if it even was a word – like a young deer just finding its legs. He was a twig in a room full of curves and volumptuousness, and apparently there wasn't a corset in the world that could alter his shape into something at least skirting near feminine, not without possibly collapsing his entire ribcage. The women of the... er... _tavern_ had said as much with many a pitying expression, regarding what, to them, was a half-starved waif of a boy they'd gladly taken in like some pup tossed in the rain.

Merlin, being Merlin and knowing full well that Arthur was never going to let him live this down, was politely disgruntled by the matter.

"It was this or let Odin's men find me and interrogate me more. Trust me, this was the better option. Look at what they did to me!"

Merlin had both torn away the wig, tossing it aside, then loosened the laces of the blue-satin gown (that Percival had jokingly said accentuated Merlin's eyes, which it did, in point of fact) and revealed to them a rather nasty lattice work of bruises on his pitifully thin back. It was quite sobering.

The women, having no love for Odin's "handsy" and rough men, had more than gladly taken the kind but desperate boy in after his piteous pleas for help. It had been risky in its own right, both for Merlin and the women – the women should the men have found out the truth, and Merlin had the soldiers not favored plump and healthy over pale and bony. Some of those men might not have cared that Merlin wasn't merely some underfed lass.

With the gown loosened and the wig gone, Merlin was even less like some ill-formed lady and more like a little boy forced by his sisters to play dress-up in their mum's clothes (of which Leon had been on the wrong end of himself at one time) and he was looking very put out by it.

It was at once both funny, not funny (knowing the reason for him having to play dress-up) and Leon would dare say almost rather adorable (knight or no, Merlin had always been regarded as the baby brother of their little band). But there was nothing for it. Merlin would just have to endure. Arthur and his men had arrived in disguise and so intended to leave the same way, which would be rather redundant if they came out of the house with the very boy Odin's men had lost.

The women kindly fussed over Merlin, tying up the dress and fixing the wig until he was... not a proper lady again, but at least not the boy Odin's men had misplaced. It was all the knights and Arthur could do to hold in their laughter. Merlin spited them by stomping very unlady like out the door and nearly tripping over his skirts in the process – three times.

They left the village and the tavern with little trouble, the women waving their handkerchiefs and sniffling at having to say goodbye to the dear young man who had been so polite and helpless. Merlin, being the polite boy that he was, bade them kind and heart-felt farewells and thank yous for rescuing him, but the moment he was out of sight immediately began to sulk.

"Remember, _I'm_ the one who makes the meals. One more word and I'm putting those mushrooms in the stew that gave you all the runs last time."

The party remained wisely quiet, at least for now.

It was by the time evening came and they stopped to make camp that Merlin finally realized he had left his shirt behind, giving him yet another reason to sulk. His trousers were another matter. Those he had kept on, rolling them up to his knees to play it safe. He now unrolled them, tossed the wig, loosened the strings of the dress and, after much wrestling and squirming, had the satin hiked up around his shoulders, his upper-half buried in the skirts and lace like a ridiculous blanket.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, Merlin." He rummaged through his satchel. "Here, take one of mine."

Merlin took the shirt like a starving man grabbing a strip of meat, and one poor-fitting garment was exchanged for another. Merlin's relief was instantaneous. Leon didn't think it was entirely because he was no longer in a dress. Even with a fire going, the night air was biting and the dress had been light-weight and near-sleeveless.

Whatever Merlin had gone through prior to his being found, it had exhausted him considerably, his refuge at the broth... er... tavern so full of worry and stress that he'd never had a chance to properly rest. He remained awake long enough to eat, but the moment he was stretched out, wrapped in the extra bedroll Gwaine had thought to bring, he was out like a snuffed candle.

The king and knights finally allowed themselves the much needed chuckle, even while Arthur unconsciously tugged the blankets up further around Merlin's bony shoulders. The collar of the shirt had slipped just enough down his back to reveal the edge of his bruises.

The next morning, they crossed the borders into Camelot and made their way home, Merlin taking their teasing as Merlin always did by parrying it with a wit as sharp as a blade.

"So what do you plan to do with the dress, Merlin?" Gwaine asked. Merlin had kept the thing, saying it didn't feel right to discard it so carelessly when it had been sacrificed by the ladies to save his life.

"I'd like to return it, if possible." He looked to Arthur hopefully. "Along with some satin cloth, maybe, so they can make a few more? They sell them, you know. Or try to when they can, which isn't often since they don't have what they need all that much. They're looking to be professional seamstresses, someday, so they don't have to... you know... do what they do to keep food on the table."

Arthur nodded in understanding. "There should be merchants passing through soon who'll be making their way to the borders. We'll have one of them make the delivery." He then huffed, and chuckled. "I never thought there'd come a day when I would say this but... Merlin, you make a terrible girl."

Merlin beamed. "Why, thank you, Arthur."

"But you're still a girl."

Merlin snorted, then laughed.

The End.

A/N: Just me having some rambly thoughts on skinny Merlin. The thing about Merlin/Colin the first four seasons of Merlin was that I honestly thought that he was still in his teens, or at most earliest twenties. I got into Merlin around season four so was quite surprised to learn that he (as in Colin) was actually twenty-six at the time. His body - specifically his thinness - was just so teenage boy having hit a major growth spurt, all bone and lank with no fat and hardly any muscle, combined with such a clean shaven face that it was easy to assume he was psychotically young (Heck, even now with him having put a little meat on his bones he sometimes still looks younger than he is).

I'll admit I do rather miss that boniness, mostly because I'm a major sucker for underdog heroes and Merlin had the underdog thing in spades (plus skinny Colin was rather adorable). But at the same time I'm glad he put a bit of weight on since there were times his thinness made him look downright ill (especially in season two), and he's still adorable. But it was quite the shock to go from season four and Merlin still looking under his actual age into season five and Merlin looking like an actual twenty-six year old being properly fed. It always made me curious whether it was a matter of making Merlin look older since several years were supposed to have past, Colin tired of being so skinny, or a little of both.


	11. How Not to Conduct a Manhunt

Rating: K+

Characters: Arthur, Merlin

Warnings: A wee smidge of violence, nothing graphic or explicit

Summary: In which a criminal is quite good at hide and seek, Arthur is at his wits end, and as much as he would like to think Merlin is drunk, he's starting to suspect that he most decidedly isn't. Just a bit of fun featuring frustrated Arthur being Arthur and a dazed and confused Merlin being Merlin.

How Not To Conduct a Manhunt

~oOo~

A castle on lock-down, a practical _army_ of guards and knights scouring the halls, and they still couldn't find one pathetic escaped prisoner? Arthur made a mental note to implement some sort of training regime that would sharpen the tracking skills of his men, because this was ridiculous. One man, who had never set foot in Camelot until two days ago when he was brought it for smuggling, should _not_ be this impossible to find.

But because the man was impossible to find, there would be no rest for anyone. Arthur had Gwaine and five of the guards fetch those servants that resided in the castle and arm them. The prisoner might have been a smuggler but he was rubbish in a fight - even Merlin could have taken him down, and merely by tripping over his own feet – so there was no reason not to have every available set of eyes and ears on the job.

Speaking of incompetent servants who tripped over their own feet, Arthur made is way to Gaius' chamber and the ridiculously small room Merlin called home. He found Merlin a curled and unconscious lump beneath his threadbare blanket, face peaceful, breaths deep and – for some reason – cheeks flushed. Arthur yanked the servant from his bed by the back of his shirt.

"On your feet, Merlin, this is no time to sleep," Arthur said.

The boy flailed wildly at being hauled unceremoniously from the warm covers to the cold floor. He wobbled precariously, fighting for balance, his red-rimmed eyes blinking rapidly then going wide, reminding Arthur of a young owl having attempted its first flight and wondering how on earth it had ended up on the ground instead.

"Arthur?" Merlin said, swaying and blinking.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Then, still gripping the collar of Merlin's shirt, herded him quickly out the door.

"Yes, Merlin. It's me. Your observational skills are as keen as ever, I see," Arthur said flatly.

"Um… thank you?" Merlin said, and still with that dazed owl look. Arthur rolled his eyes and gave Merlin a firm but careful shake as they made their way down the stairs.

"Will you wake up, already, _Mer_lin. How is it you're still half asleep? The alarm bells have been ringing for the past ten minutes, the whole bloody castle should be awake by now and yet I find you lazing about like a useless boulder."

"There's a boulder?" Merlin said, still dazed, still wobbling.

_Gods, grant me patience_, Arthur silently prayed. "No, Merlin. There's an intruder. An escaped prisoner, and I need anyone and everyone to help track him down. So will you wake up already and make yourself at least a little useful?"

"I am useful," Merlin said with a scowl, which was quickly replaced by that dazed look again. "How do I need to be useful, again?"

Arthur had to wonder why he'd even bothered fetching Merlin. The man was three times as rubbish in doing anything when half asleep, and would more than likely be a hindrance than a help. But even Arthur had to admit that the boy had a keen pair of eyes when the moment suited him, and neither could he deny that Merlin's "funny feelings" could be rather spot on (unnervingly so, sometimes). Except neither keen eyes nor an uncanny knack for divining the future would be up to snuff until the boy _bloody well woke up_.

But Merlin at least had found his feet, and Arthur was finally able to let him go. The moment he did, however, Merlin stumbled to a stop and blinked like the concussed owl Arthur had compared him to only moments ago. Arthur slapped him hard on the back while at the same time thrust the hilt of a dagger into his hands. The blade was in desperate need of sharpening, so there shouldn't be any worries over Merlin accidentally impaling himself.

Merlin looked down at the knife as though it had magically appeared out of thin out.

"Arthur, why am I armed?" Merlin asked, expression troubled.

Arthur gritted his teeth, then gave Merlin a light shove to get him moving.

"Are you deaf as well as brainless? I just told you! A prisoner has escaped and we need everyone able man to find him. You're with me, and for the love of the gods, will you wake up and pay attention! The last thing I need is for the braggart to stab me in the back while you stare on like an idiot."

"Oh," Merlin said with a slow, fluttery blink. The scowl then made a come-back. "I'm not an idiot, you're the idiot."

"Gods, Merlin, and here I thought your wit couldn't get any worse."

They moved down the hall carefully, Arthur checking every shadowy nook and behind every curtain by pulling the cloth aside with the tip of his sword. Merlin followed but continued to regard his dull little knife like something both troubling and fascinating.

"Um," Merlin said suddenly, and just loud enough to give them away had anyone been in the hall. Arthur cringed and whirled around.

"Merlin, will you keep it down!" Arthur hissed.

"Um…" Merlin said again, but quietly, this time, thank goodness. "What does it… he… the thing we're looking for look like?"

_Gods, I mean it, I could really use that patience before I strangle him_, Arthur prayed. He tossed up his hands. "Merlin, you were right blasted there when we caught him. You know what he looks like!"

"Oh," Merlin said. "I… er… might need you to refresh my memory."

"I'll knock your memory out of your head in a minute," Arthur growled. "Lords, Merlin, why today of all days do you have to be at your most useless? Just… keep an eye out and tell me if you see any movement or anything out of place."

"Right," Merlin said with a resolute nod. "I can do that." He wobbled.

Arthur stared at him, studying him carefully, and frowned. "Merlin… please tell me you're not drunk?"

"Drunk?" Merlin said dumbly as though Arthur had asked him to calculate the current placement of the stars. "Uh… nope. Not drunk."

"Are you sure?" Arthur pressed. "Because right now it's rather hard to believe that you're anything _but_ drunk."

Merlin pursed his lips thoughtfully, then shook his head. "Nope, definitely not."

"You're positive," Arthur said.

"I'd be laughing more if I was drunk… I think. At least Gwaine says I laugh a lot. Oh, and try to sing, too. Which some men got annoyed with once and it started a fight and Gwaine and I ended up banned from the tavern for a month."

"Was that the time you showed up for work with a black eye, a hangover and the promise of never drinking with Gwaine again?" Arthur asked.

"Uh… yep," Merlin said, beaming like it was something to be proud of.

"Is that the last time you were in the tavern?" Arthur asked.

"Yep," Merlin said again with that same blear-eyed cheeriness.

Arthur frowned. That had been a little over two months ago. Of course, get drunk enough and large chunks of time did have a tendency to go missing. It was possible that Merlin was so drunk he didn't even remember going to the tavern.

Except Arthur recalled quite clearly the rather unpleasant aftermath of the very night Merlin was speaking of, which not even Gwaine fully remembered except for bits, pieces, exaggerations and with the inclusion of pink unicorns. Nor was Arthur a stranger to Merlin drunk – the boy really couldn't hold his liquor to save his life - and what Arthur was seeing now, although by definition it could be called drunk behavior, it wasn't _Merlin_ drunk behavior. And, come to think of it, when had Merlin the time to even drop by the tavern for a quick one, today? He'd been with Arthur for the better part of the day, and when not with Arthur he was doing chores in between. The last Arthur had seen of Merlin – just as Arthur was getting into bed – Merlin had been wearily snuffing out the candles, then had left dragging heavy feet and with an equally weary "good night, sire." The exhaustion had practically oozed from him. There was no way he would have made a detour to the tavern.

"Merlin," Arthur asked carefully. "Are you all right?"

Merlin rubbed at one eye with the heel of his hand, reminding Arthur so much of a sleepy child. "Mm… got a bit of a headache. But I'm not drunk, I'm sure."

Merlin wasn't drunk, but he was most definitely something. And maybe it was the trick of the torch light, but Arthur thought he looked pale – more so than usual, that is. Pale with dark circles under his eyes, and maybe a sheen of sweat on his forehead. But that could have just been the torches…

"Um… weren't we looking for someone?" Merlin asked blearily.

Arthur snapped from his careful scrutiny of his manservant and rearranged his features into something sterner. Now wasn't the time to puzzle over his manservant's erratic behavior. They had a criminal to catch.

"Yes, right. Let's keep moving."

"Well, I was just going to say we could ask that shadowy man about him," Merlin said, pointing behind Arthur.

Arthur whirled around, his sword at the ready. There was no one there. But Arthur knew these halls and knew there was a door not far from them. He dashed up the hall, yanked the door open and peered inside. There wasn't much to see since it was little more than a broom cupboard.

"Damn it, Merlin," Arthur snarled. He slammed the door shut and turned.

Merlin wasn't there. With another snarl, Arthur trotted quickly down the hall, and spotted Merlin out of the corner of his eye standing in the middle of the adjacent corridor looking small, lost and disheveled. He stared at the walls with that same troubled but fascinated expression he had given the knife, and his eyelids looked like they wanted nothing more than to drop shut and not open until morning.

"Hey, did you know these walls have sparkly things all over them?" Merlin said wistfully to no one in particular. "It's pretty."

Arthur hurried over to him, and when he placed his hand on Merlin's shoulder to turn him forcibly around, Merlin flinched and shuddered.

"Merlin, what in the world is wrong with you?" Arthur demanded. He placed his hand against Merlin's forehead. Arthur's eyes rounded over.

"Merlin, you're boiling."

"Shouldn't be," Merlin slurred. "Not in a pot of water." He looked at Arthur, his eyes going as wide as his heavy eyelids were capable. "Oh… oh! Are you asking me to boil water? Are you in the mood for a bath, sire?"

Arthur grumbled under his breath, grabbed Merlin's shoulder and turned him around. "That's it, you're going back to Gaius."

"We're going to Gaius? Why, are you sick?" Merlin asked. He suddenly shivered, and folded his arms tightly. "I'm not surprised. Do you realize how drafty this castle is? Someone really needs to do something about it before people get sick."

"Yep, I'll get right on that," Arthur said, keeping his grip on Merlin's shoulder as he hurried him along. It was the middle of summer, and windless.

"All the drafts might have something to do with the little purple men. Do you employ them to fix things, because they're doing a rubbish job of it," Merlin rambled. He stumbled, again, this time into Arthur, and seemed to have no intention of straightening up and walking mostly on his own.

Neither did Arthur let him. He wrapped his arm around Merlin's shoulders, because Arthur really didn't like the way Merlin's knees kept trying to give out.

"I'll be sure to fire them," Arthur said.

"You do that," Merlin slurred. "I hate drafts." He shivered, hard. "I hate being cold."

Then he began coughing, light at first before it evolved into something fitful and heavy that nearly doubled him over. It shook his body, and when finished, left him gasping, weak, and even more dependent on Arthur's support.

"Easy, Merlin, we're almost there," Arthur soothed. He wasn't scared, of course not, even if the coughing had been painful just to hear. But they were close, just as Arthur had promised.

A dark shape dashed across the hall in a panicked run, right across Arthur's and Merlin's path causing Arthur to flinch back and Merlin to yelp in alarm.

"Damn it all! Merlin, wait here," Arthur said. He lowered Merlin to the ground against the wall. Then he gave chase.

But the blighter was fast, giving Arthur one hell of a run through the corridors. The man turned just as Arthur and two guards coming in from the other way were about to pin him, then vanished down yet another hall.

Then he vanished, in all literal sense of the word, in a small explosion of cloudy light.

"Well that explains a lot, he's a sorcerer!" Arthur growled. "Men, with me!"

They ran back the way they had come, passing other guards and knights who had come running at the sound of the criminal's cacophonous get-away.

"He's a sorcerer, be on your guard!" Arthur called in passing.

But at the extreme moment, the criminal wasn't Arthur's priority. He'd left Merlin in the hall, half-out of it and vulnerable, and there was a sorcerer running around desperate to escape. Although it did beg the question as to why the fool sorcerer hadn't popped himself clean out of Camelot in a burst of light in the first place. But it was a question that could wait. Merlin first, criminal and his stupid parlor tricks later.

Arthur reached the corridor where he had left Merlin. He skidded around the bend, then to a stop, and his heart shot into his throat.

Merlin was on the floor, curled into himself with his hands over his head. Standing over him, kicking Merlin without mercy in the ribs and back, was the criminal.

"You give it back you little brat or I'll gut you like a pig!" the man snarled.

Red veiled Arthur's vision and filled his head like magma. He marched up to the man who was too occupied with kicking Merlin to see what was coming, grabbed the man by the shoulders, spun him around, and punched him in the face. The man went limp as a fish, but Arthur wasn't done. He pounded the man's face like it was the punching sack out on the training grounds, over and over, ignoring the hands pulling him away.

Finally he let the man drop to the floor, unconscious, but kicked him for good measure all the same, to show him how it felt…

Merlin.

Arthur shrugged off the hands trying to pull him away. He moved quickly to Merlin and crouched next to him, leaving the man for the guards and knights to deal with. Merlin remained curled on the floor, shaking with wet, heavy coughs. When Arthur touched his shoulder to get his attention, Merlin cringed.

"It's all right, Merlin, it's just me."

Merlin looked up at him, still like a dazed owl not quite sure as to what had gone wrong on his first flight.

"Ar-thur?" Merlin choked.

Arthur smiled tremulously. "Glad to see your keen observation skills are still working."

Merlin's coughs subsided, but it left him panting for air, which caused him to wince with each inhale.

"Ow," he said.

Arthur clenched his fist. He looked back to glare at the man who had done this, but the guards had taken him away. Arthur turned his attention back to Merlin.

Merlin was holding something up in a shaking hand – a small slip of paper.

"G-got this f-from him," he said.

Arthur took the slip of paper. A strange, foreign language had been scribbled on its stained surface. But having been groomed for the war against magic, Arthur knew the lettering of a spell when he saw it. Uther had made sure that Arthur was at least familiar with the lettering to recognize it during searches and seizures of magical contraband.

Arthur chuffed. "Well, that explains why he couldn't magic himself out of the castle." Thieves and smugglers were said to sometimes use a few spells to help them in their trade. They were also said to not very good at it nine times out of ten.

Arthur looked at Merlin in confusion, as well as suspicion. "How, exactly, did you get this?"

Merlin's fever-glazed eyes regarded Arthur like he was an idiot. "When I t-tackled him."

"You tackled him," Arthur said dryly.

"When he popped into the hall. Like a fairy. Thought he w-was a fairy, actually. Fairies aren't always nice, you know. Didn't want him going all small and flying down people's throats and possessing them to make them do stupid things like lick gold and kidnap princes and..." Merlin coughed wretchedly and winced, fisting his hand against his ribs. "I think the fairy may have possessed me, actually. Hurts to breathe."

Arthur pulled Merlin's hand away and lifted his night shirt. A bruise was forming, and a nasty one at that. Arthur shook his head, unsure whether to be amazed, annoyed or angry at his manservant's actions.

"Merlin, you are…" idiotic, foolish, ridiculously loyal, utterly brave, but mostly idiotic. Arthur shook his head. "You are going back to Gaius' chamber."

He gathered Merlin into his arms with the usual customary comments on swooning maidens that these situations often warranted. Merlin frowned in confusion and muttered something about how the maids shouldn't have to work at such late hours, especially not if they'd been swooning. The words devolved into another coughing fit, and Merlin curled against Arthur's chest, shivering so that his teeth chattered. Arthur tightened his hold on Merlin – so the idiot wouldn't end up shaking himself back onto the floor, that was the only reason.

Gaius was awake, and by his disgruntled look had been since Arthur had first burst through the door to fetch Merlin. Then his eyes moved to his shivering, huddling, coughing ward and his expression immediately softened.

Arthur placed Merlin on the patient cot while explaining what had happened, and Gaius fetched the needed tools and remedies. He had Arthur help him removed Merlin's flimsy nightshirt, then had him stand back out of the way so that Gaius could assess his patient. He pressed on Merlin's ribs – one of them likely cracked, he announced – then placed his ear to Merlin's skinny chest.

"I feared as much," he said. "Merlin was feeling rather poorly when he returned home."

Merlin coughed. "Feeling rather poorly now," he managed between coughs. Gaius patted his shoulder affectionately. He followed this show of affection by pouring one bitter potion after another down Merlin's throat until he was gagging. Arthur was called back in to hold Merlin up while Gaius bound his ribs, then they replaced his shirt and Arthur carried him up to his room and back to bed, with further remarks on swooning maidens.

"Arthur, really, stop making the poor maids work at night," Merlin said, already half-asleep thanks to Gaius' potions.

"Only if you stop tackling magic-using criminals while in your night-shirt and sick as a dog."

"Mm," Merlin said sleepily, burying his cheek into his pillow when Arthur set him down. "Deal."

Arthur laughed, covering his servant with the blanket, then another blanket that Gaius brought up. He left Merlin as he had found him – a little worse for wear, but cheerfully, blissfully asleep.

The End


	12. Gwaine

Rating: PG, Gen

Warning: Blood

Characters: Merlin, Gwaine, Gaius, some Arthur

Summary: An alternate take on the episode "Gwaine". What if Merlin had done more than cut a finger on that sword?

A/N: inspired by the following piece of art: archiveofourown dot org slash works slash 855999

Gwaine

Arthur was right about him; Merlin really was a walking hazard when handling a sword, and not in the way that counted. All Merlin had been trying to do was test the bluntness of a blade so blatantly harmless at first sight, the edges practically flattened instead of the usual keen taper. He had no reason to expect ill consequences form touching the stupid things.

Then the sound of approaching footsteps startled Merlin bad enough for him to fumble his hold on the sword. The blade slipped from his palm to a little ways down his wrist.

And blood began to flow, thick and hot.

Between the shock of having caused damage with a blunted sword and the footsteps dangerously close, Merlin didn't have time to think on the matter (he had yet to even register the pain). Cradling his hand against his chest so that his shirt caught the drops of blood, he grabbed the sword from the floor, dropped it hastily back onto the table then darted into the nearby wardrobe.

But the blood was coming fast. Merlin could hear it dripping on the wood of the wardrobe. He yanked his neckerchief from his throat and bound his hand and wrist with it as best he could in the dark. Merlin had just finished tucking the end of the neckerchief into his make-shift wrap when the door moaned loudly open and Sirs Oswald's and Ethan's boisterous laughter followed, and then all Merlin could think was_ please don't see any blood, please don't see any blood_… He could feel that blood soaking through the neckerchief. The pain had finally hit, like fire licking at his wrist and hand, like it was sloughing off the flesh that was turning to liquid.

The image made him dizzy. Very dizzy. Dizzy and sick and, suddenly, Merlin was finding it very hard to keep his rather wobbily knees from giving out from under him. There was a roaring in Merlin's ears that joined forces with the pain, making it hard to hear, to think.

Had Sirs Ethan and Oswald found any blood drops, or left, or did or said anything that Merlin would have needed to hear, Merlin didn't know. He slumped against the side of the wardrobe, and stopped hearing all together.

~oOo~

It wasn't often that Gwaine succumbed to the whims of guilt, not when it came to who bought the drinks and the means by which he could pay the tab (or, to be honest, the means by which he could _avoid_ paying the tab). But he was feeling uncharacteristically guilty today. Because it wasn't just a matter of Merlin having been the one to pay his tab this time around, but Merlin the one who had taken the brunt of Arthur's retribution for Gwaine's night out, and took it with far more humility than Gwaine would have ever expressed (had he been inclined to express any humility at all, which would happen when pigs played the pipes and danced a jig). That kid was a bloody gem in a cliff of ugly brown rock, and deserved more than merely Gwaine's paltry company as they polished an endless line of boots. He deserved a bloody drink, on _Gwaine_.

But first Gwaine had to find that little sweet-natured gem called Merlin, which turned out to be no real task at all. The maids of this castle were quite receptive to a bright smile and a kiss to the hand. They pointed the way to some fancy guest chambers saying something about seeing Merlin heading in there to attend to the visiting nobles (poor kid). And since no one had seen him leave, then it was safe to assume he was still there.

Gwaine reached the room in question just as the stuffy lords in question were departing, but with no Merlin in tow. Good, it meant the kid had been left behind, no doubt to tidy up what didn't really need tidying up (because heaven forbid a speck of dust should so much as soil the two lords' stuffy raiment), and Merlin wouldn't be missed if he slipped out for an ale or two.

Gwaine waited until the two lords or knights or whatever they were had vanished around the corner. He checked in both directions, making sure the coast was clear, then slipped gingerly into the room.

Merlin wasn't there.

Gwaine was ready to pout about it and grumble over the thought of scouring the entire castle for one skinny, good-natured manservant when a thump pulled his attention to the wardrobe.

Gwaine would easily admit himself to being a man burdened with a near-unhealthy amount of curiosity, and unburdened by the inhibition to answer to that curiosity no matter the situation nor location. It was reinforced by the sudden image of two of the castle staff having the pleasure getting intimately acquainted in a lord's closet (a sense of danger always did heighten the "mood," Gwaine had long ago discovered). And as much as Gwaine would have loved nothing more than to leave the two love birds to their endeavors, neither could he pass up the opportunity for a good laugh.

Gwain crept up to the wardrobe, gripped the knobs in both hands, and flung the doors open with a "boo!" on the tip of his tongue.

The jovial shout of surprise became a yelp of alarm when Gwaine suddenly found himself with an armful of skinny, unnervingly pale and frighteningly unconscious manservant. But the shock of Merlin falling limp as a fish from the closet was nothing compared to what covered the boy.

Blood. Far too much blood. It stained his shirt and had soaked nearly every inch of the neckerchief wrapped around his hand, dripping down his skinny, pale arm.

"Oh no, no, no, Merlin! Merlin, mate, can you hear me? Merlin!" Gwaine said, shaking Merlin gently.

Merlin's head rolled on his limp neck, his good arm swinging bonelessly.

"Damn it!" Gwaine hissed, gathering Merlin into his arms as he would one of the frisky barmaids looking for more than just a night of serving drinks.

No, that wasn't right. More like a child – a helpless child, all skin, bones, little muscle and no fat, his head resting against Gwaine's collarbone and his bloodied hand tucked against his chest, the blood painting red trails down his near-white arm. Gwaine's grip on Merlin was so tight he could feel the boy's ribs but could barely feel them moving with each weak breath, and he had to force himself to ease his grip, just a little, not wanting to bruise him or restrict his feeble attempts at getting oxygen. Gwaine hurried from the room, moving fast as the fragile burden in his arms would let him.

"Easy, Merlin," he said. "Easy. I've got you, mate. I'll get you to Gaius."

Merlin didn't stir. Had it not been for the slight but still-there motions of the ribcage and the ghost of a warm breath across Gwaine's jaw, it would have been easy to think Merlin dead.

Gwaine tensed until his teeth ground together. Those knights had done this. Those bastards had hurt Merlin, stuffed him in a closet, left him to bloody bleed out. And had getting Merlin to Gaius not been so dire a need, he would have hunted the bastards down and made _them_ bleed. But right here and now, they didn't matter. All that mattered was Merlin and getting him the help he needed.

It seemed an eternity later that Gwaine reached Gaius' chambers, and when he did he couldn't set Merlin down fast enough, and had to rein himself in to be gentle about it.

"What happened?" Gaius, who had been grinding herbs, demanded as he dropped his bowl and pestle and made his way straight to his ward.

"I don't know," Gwaine said. He backed quickly away, giving Gaius room to work. "I found him like this. Gaius, he's lost a lot of blood…"

Gaius grunted in grim agreement. He gathered bottles, had Gwaine gather bandages, and put them all within reach on the workbench. Gaius then unwrapped Merlin's neckerchief and hissed at the damage and the blood still oozing from the gash.

"He was tending to those knights," Gwaine seethed. He looked at Gaius with blazing eyes. "They did this. I know they did."

"Yes, well, let us not jump to conclusions until Merlin is able to give us more details."

"We have all the details we need!" Gwaine said, gesturing sharply at Merlin's oozing injury.

"But to go and make accusations without concrete proof will only bring trouble," Gaius said sternly as he wiped away as much blood as possible for a better look at the wound. When Gwaine opened his mouth to protest, Gaius quickly added, "Trouble that could land on Merlin's head just as much as your own. And the last thing the boy needs is to end up in the stocks while recovering from blood loss."

Gwaine snorted. "Yeah, right. Sorry, but even the princess can't be that cruel."

"But his father can," Gaius muttered, flashing a warning look at Gwaine. "Uther isn't fond of the boy as is. So, please, don't do anything rash. Not until we know more. For Merlin's sake."

Gwaine heaved a tense sigh, but gave an equally tense nod. It was his fault Merlin had ended up having to polish all those boots. Like hell Gwaine was going to heap more misery on the boy.

With as much of the blood removed as possible, Gaius studied the wound, frowning severely and muttering something about Merlin being lucky that the cut hadn't gone any deeper over the wrist. Taking a needle and thread, Gaius set to work stitching the wound together. Gwaine watched, wanting to turn away but frozen in place by grotesque fascination. Gaius was quite steady for an old man. He took his time, making sure the flesh was lined up properly. When finished, he slathered the wound with honey then wrapped the arm in the clean linens Gwaine had fetched.

After that, he had Gwaine hold Merlin up while Gaius poured various potions into Merlin's mouth and massaged Merlin's throat into swallowing the liquids down. He then had Gwaine remove Merlin's shirt, carefully; hold him while Gaius washed the dried blood from Merlin's skinny chest with a rag; dressed the boy in one of his sleeping shirts.

And in all that time, Merlin had yet to so much as twitch an eyelid. Gaius had Gwaine carry Merlin to his own bed, making Merlin comfortable while still keeping him within easy reach. Once Merlin was situated, Gaius pressed his fingers to the veins of Merlin's undamaged wrist.

"Thready," he said.

Gwaine looked from Merlin to Gaius urgently. "Is that bad?"

"It is to be expected considering he lost so much blood. Gwaine, go to that cupboard, there, and fetch me about four blankets and use them to elevate Merlin's feet. It's the potential shock I'm most concerned about."

"And lifting his feet helps with that?" Gwaine asked as he did what Gaius told him.

Gaius nodded. "It keeps the blood where it most matters – specifically his heart and brain." He lifted Merlin's hand and placed a small pillow beneath it, elevating it as well.

Then there was nothing left to do but wait, and if there was a sure fire method of torture that actually managed to get under Gwaine's skin, it was waiting. He wanted to go out, find those two damn knights and beat a confession out of them, but he wanted more to know that Merlin was going to be all right.

So Gwaine made himself comfortable on a rather uncomfortable stool, and waited.

~oOo~

Merlin wanted to say that he was dreaming, but the throbbing pain in his hand and wrist wouldn't let him and dreams weren't usually this horribly tangible. He also wanted to wake up, find out why in the world his hand was pulsing so mercilessly, but his brain seemed much more interested in keeping him in his current floating state that made it so easy to assume he was dreaming except for that blasted pain.

"All right, Gaius, where is he?" Merlin heard Arthur say. Now he really hoped he was dreaming and that the pain was some outside annoyance having worked its way into his unconscious mind. Arthur had sounded annoyed – pompously annoyed – and when he managed both pompous and annoyed instead of just annoyed, it meant Merlin had been shirking his duties for too long and there was a chore list a mile long waiting for him.

"He is currently bed-ridden, if you can't tell for yourself," said Gwaine, and, oh, lords, please don't let Gwaine give Arthur another reason to think the entire army's boots needed polishing. Merlin highly doubted his arm was up for it, or would be for some time.

Thinking about Camelot's army led Merlin's thoughts to swords. Funny the directions the mind went…

Then he remembered.

A blunt blade. Being startled. What should have been a harmless weapon slicing Merlin down his palm and wrist.

A weapon meant for the melee Arthur was participating in.

"Gaius, what happened?" Arthur said, no longer with pompous annoyance but instead with what Merlin could have sworn was concern.

"You want to know what happened?" Gwaine said tightly. "I'll tell you what happened, Merlin—"

"Had an accident," Gaius swiftly and efficiently cut in. "We're not yet certain of the details and won't be until Merlin wakes, but he somehow managed to injure his hand. He lost quite a bit of blood, so it may be some time before he wakes up."

"But he will be all right?" Arthur asked.

"In time. For now what he needs is rest."

"Yes, of course. Please let me know if there's any change, Gaius."

"Yes, sire."

Footsteps, followed by the creak of Gaius' old door.

"Why the hell didn't you say something about those two knights?" Gwaine hissed.

"I told you, Gwaine. Your accusations will mean nothing without more evidence. Have Patience. Merlin will wake and tell us what happened eventually."

Except eventually wasn't good enough, not with the melee close at hand and Arthur in danger. Merlin pushed at the haze clouding his brain, fighting to open eyelids that seemed weighted down by boulders, a struggle that made him groan.

Making a sound, it seemed, was not unlike casting a spell he hadn't intended. No sooner had he made the noise when the room seemed to erupt with the clatter of footfalls and two voices saying his name with much urgency and hope and someone patting his cheek gently.

Merlin finally won the struggle to open his eyes – mostly. He managed to part them just enough to see two blurs that were familiar in shape hovering over him.

"Merlin. Merlin, I need you to wake up." That was Gaius.

"Show me that all my hard work lugging you up here hasn't been for not, mate." Gwaine.

Merlin's eyelids fluttered. He focused on the memory of the swords, of the melee and Arthur in danger, and it filled him with just enough adrenaline to be able to clear his vision. Had he the energy, he would have flinched from the two men hovering uncomfortably close overhead. Both men seemed to deflate with a released a breath of relief.

"About time you joined the land of the living," Gwaine said laughingly. But it was a short-lived mirth. A grim expression quickly settled over Gwaine's features when he asked, "Merlin, who did this to you? Was it those knights you've been tending to?"

But if Merlin thought opening his eyes had been a struggle, finding his voice and getting it to work was a down right battle. He managed to croak something that may have sounded like sword (or may have sounded like ord) when his lips were assaulted by the rim of a wooden cup. It took his fuzzed brain a moment to realize it was Gaius getting him to drink something.

"Gwaine, please. Give the poor boy a moment. This is more than a nap he's waking from. That he's awake at all so soon is a miracle." Gaius then said to Merlin, more kindly, "Take your time, Merlin. You've had a serious injury and lost quite a bit of blood."

Merlin could only reply with a noncommittal, "Mm." He did as Gaius told him – not having much choice – and took a moment to let the cool water moisten his parched throat. Only then did he try again.

"S-swords," he managed.

Gwaine frowned. "Swords? What swords? Did those bastards attack you with a sword!"

"Gwaine, please," Gaius admonished.

"No," Merlin said, and the more he spoke, the stronger his voice became, but at the same time seemed to require more breaths in between than normal. "Their swords. I – I think they're… enchanted."

Gaius' head reared back. "Enchanted?"

"Th-they look blunted but…" Merlin's eyes rolled down to his bandaged hand and wrist resting on his chest. "They're not."

"And that's how you injured your hand?" Gwaine said.

"I was… startled and… the sword slipped," Merlin forced out. The strength he had mustered to talk was ebbing, giving him little time to explain. "A-Arthur's in… danger."

Gwaine tossed up his hands and looked at Gaius. "Well, there you go. Our evidence. I get those swords, you show the king that they're not what they seem, all's well that end's well, yeah?"

Merlin, however, shook his head. "Wh-what if they catch you? Y-you have no reason… to be in their chambers."

Gwaine cocked an eyebrow at him. "I hate to break it to you, mate. But in your condition neither do you."

"N-not yet. We… still have time. Just – just need to get strong enough to get in… then out…"

Gwain chuffed. "Merlin, I'm starting to think you may be crazier than me."

"Jus… just don do anything… yet…" Merlin slurred. His body finally had enough, and his weighted eyelids slipped closed.

~oOo~

Gwaine watched as Merlin gave in to exhaustion, laying there pale and still as the dead. He grimaced at the thought.

"You know, between you and Merlin here it seems the only contribution I'll be making is to sit on my arse and stay out of the way."

Gaius sighed wearily as he fussed with the blankets covering Merlin. "Unfortunately, and though it pains me to admit it, Merlin does have a point. He has a reason for going into the knight's chambers. You do not. Were you to be caught, Uther would turn a deaf ear to anything you had to say. The consequences could very well end in your execution."

Gwaine glowered. "So we let the man who lost a quart of blood to go in instead. Oh, yeah, brilliant plan."

"Well," Gaius said, resigned. "It's not as though we have to like it."

~oOo~

Merlin wasn't up to so much as standing until the next day, but even getting himself upright seemed as dubious an endeavor as sneaking into the knights' chamber and stealing their enchanted swords. Neither Gaius nor Gwaine (especially Gwaine) were happy about it. In fact Gaius confessed to having attempted an alternate plan that had involved delivery of a "helpful tonic" (that had been, in fact, a potent sleeping aid) but the knights had wanted nothing to do with it.

Merlin also suspected that Gwaine may have gone against their wishes and attempted to break into the knight's chamber, but if had attempted it, and had he done so between evening and morning (which would have been the only times – it had been close to evening when Merlin had had his accident with the sword) he wouldn't have gone far. That wing being the guest wing always had double the patrol during the night, nearly rivaling the number of guards in the royal wing. That Gwaine adamantly denied having tried anything, and that Gaius kept giving him "the eyebrow" might as well have been a full confession.

Merlin, at first, couldn't decide whether to be annoyed by their attempts or touched that they had tried to help so that Merlin wouldn't have to do anything. He'd given into annoyance at first – he didn't think he was _that_ feeble – but as he dragged his feet down the hall, keeping close to the wall in case his bouts of dizziness got the better of him – he started to really wish they'd succeeded. Dizziness wasn't the only problem. The pain draught Gaius had given him had been the more tempered concoction that only dulled the pain and not by much. He also felt chilled, not to mention a little nauseas, and his extra-pale complexion coupled with his bound arm resting in a sling was drawing more attention than he cared to deal with. The last thing he needed was to be stopped in the halls and interrogated as to why he was up and about when he looked like death warmed over.

But Merlin made it to the knights' chambers without being kindly harassed. Being the early morning hours, before even the most insanely early-bird knight would be up, there were few people to run into except the guards, and they weren't ones to pry into the business of someone looking the opposite of dangerous. Merlin was a man doing his duty was all, come rain, shine or injury (which should have been suspicious in and of itself, but Merlin was painfully aware of how 'peculiar' most of the castle thought him).

Merlin quietly slipped through the doors of the chamber, but had to move from the steadying presence of the wall to get to the chest (which really shouldn't have been so difficult, but while Merlin's body wanted to go one way, his legs kept going another). It was just when he _finally_ reached it, and was about to open it that he saw the muted glow of something coming from the vicinity of a sleeping Sir Oswald.

Merlin edged around the bed, closer to Sir Oswald, and saw a crystal around his neck. And within the crystal, the image of a face Merlin had hoped never to see again – that ruffian from the tavern, Dagr.

Merlin's eyes widened. Lords, this was even better evidence than the bloody swords! But before Merlin had a chance to figure out how to use this new piece of evidence, Sir Oswald's eyes flew open.

~oOo~

Gwaine paced. Lords, why did everything in his life since meeting Merlin now come down to always having to wait. He glanced out the window at the sun now turning the world pale gold and frowned.

*"He should be back by now," he said.

Gaius stared at the door, worried. "I know."

Gwaine paused. Enough was enough. "I'm going to see what's going on." He headed straight for the door, Gaius' protest of "Gwaine," cut off by his single-minded departure. To hell with potentially getting caught. He would more than gladly risk it if it meant getting Merlin out of whatever trouble he was in. He was actually hoping to find Merlin half-passed out in the hall, unable to fulfill his personal mission of getting those swords and so not in a position of needing rescuing.

But, sadly, as was often Gwaine's lot in life, reality wasn't so kind. Gwaine reached the door in time to hear a cry of agony.

"Please, I was just rearranging the bedclothes, that's all!"

"You hear that, Sir Ethan? He was just rearranging the bedclothes."

"My mistake. He's not the sniveling thief I thought he was."

"I thought you might be cold!"

"Of course you did."

Another cry of pain, this one breaking off into a sob. A cue for Gwaine to enter if there ever was one. He burst through the doors to a sight that made his blood boil – Merlin on his knees, pale and shaking with pain while Sir Oswald held tight to his injured wrist.

"Is there a problem here?" Gwaine managed to push through his clenched jaw.

"No, now leave," Sir Oswald snarled.

"Can't," Gwaine said. "Because I have no intentions of leaving without my friend, there. Merlin, you all right?"

"I said leave," Oswald sneered.*

Gwaine narrowed his eyes at him. "I wasn't talking to you. And if you had any brains in that thick skull of yours, you'd release Merlin before I detach your hand from your arm."

Which, of course, for anyone else would have been the wrong thing to say. For Gwaine, it got the results he'd been wanting since discovering Merlin injured. Oswald released Merlin who crumpled over his hurt wrist, cradling it to his chest. Oswald, the supposedly blunted blade in his other hand, advanced on Gwaine, Ethan taking the flank.

*"How dare you speak to a knight like that!"

Gwaine merely smiled, drew his own sword, and the battle was on. About bloody time, was Gwaine's only thought before their swords clashed and Gwaine was ducking, dodging and parrying. It felt good, brilliant, even, as he elbowed Sir Ethan and drove Sir Oswald back.

But just as Gwaine had Sir Oswald disarmed, a real knight of Camelot walked in all billowing cape and stern, unhappy expression.

"What's going on?" Leon demanded.

Gwaine never had a chance to answer when Oswald back-handed him to the floor.

~oOo~

This was all Merlin's fault. He should have just ignored the crystal and taken the swords. But, no. He had to be greedy, had to go for the crystal, wake Oswald up in the process and now Gwaine was being kicked out of Camelot. Which, yes, wasn't so bad in the grand scheme of Uther's often punishment-happy frame of mind when it came to those he thought of lesser status. Arthur had vouched for Gwaine, Gaius had said, or Gwaine's punishment may very well have involved a rope and a drop with a sudden stop.

But Merlin hadn't been there to add his voice to Gwaine's support. Oswald's rough handling of Merlin's wrist had reopened part of the wound and blood had soaked nearly the entire bandage. Merlin had been out of his head with dizziness, and had passed out during the guards carrying him to Gaius' chambers. Then he woke to the bad news.

Merlin had managed to struggle upright in the patient's cot just as Gwaine came down from Merlin's room, pack over his shoulder, to say his good-byes.

"Gwaine, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault," Merlin babbled.

Gwaine, a jaunty smile on his face, sauntered over and clapped Merlin lightly on the shoulder.

*"Don't be. I never stay in one place for very long. People get sick of me too quickly."

Merlin gave him a tremulous smile. "I didn't."

"After the trouble I caused?" Gwaine said with a chuff.

"You livened the place up."

Gwaine chuckled. "Look after Arthur. He's in danger."

"I thought you hated nobles?"

"Yeah, well… maybe that one's worth dying for."* Gwaine then looked down at Merlin's wrist, re-bandaged and back in its sling. "Look after yourself, too. Oh, and enough with the guilt. I've been booted out of too many places to count for too many reasons to remember. But… it was worth it this time. Believe me."

He gave Merlin one more clap on the shoulder, then turned and left. As Merlin watched him go it pained him to think this could be the last time he ever saw Gwaine, and he wondered – hoped – if the future would see him running into the man again.

(And it did, when he came back to save Arthur's life. And again, when he helped Merlin to save Arthur's life. And again, when he saved the whole bloody kingdom and became the noble knight he was always meant to be).

The End

*Dialog from the episode.


End file.
